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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T HE COUNCIL CHAMBERS FELT smaller than usual. Sap coursed through the live grain of the walls, and with every pulse, the round edge of the room seemed to get closer and closer.

Riven gave me a nod from where he stood beside Syrra. Her back was as straight as a tree in her chair and her arms bent out at odd angles as if at any moment she would spring forward and run from the room.

I didn’t know how much he had told her. But I felt better having her with us.

Someone knocked on the wall.

The grain split in an instant, curving back wide enough for Gerarda and Elaran to step through. Two hooded figures stood behind them, heads bent low so no one could see their faces under the shadow of the cloth.

Rheih walked in behind them. Her curls were held back with two sticks she seemingly plucked from the forest floor.

“Where were you?” I seethed through my teeth as she took the chair beside me. I had searched for her for hours, but the Mage had been nowhere to be found.

Her yellow eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Someone set a curfew on the entire city. With my harvest hours cut in half, I can’t be available for every frivolity you see fit to entertain us with.”

She clucked her tongue and my hand turned to a fist along the armrest.

“I didn’t realize you found me entertaining,” I deadpanned.

Rheih sighed and adjusted the smock on top of her robes. “That’s the true sadness. I don’t.”

Feron stood before I could lose everyone’s respect for smacking an elderly Mage in the mouth.

“We all agree to keep what is shared in this room private until we come to a consensus?” Feron made a slow circular glance about the room.

Everyone nodded except for one of the hooded figures. I didn’t need to see her red curls to know it was Gwyn.

I cleared my throat.

“I swear it,” Gwyn chimed in a bored voice.

Feron sat and nodded at Gerarda and Elaran. They both stepped to the side, allowing Fyrel and Gwyn to approach the circular table.

Gwyn pulled back her hood. Then she lifted her hand to expose her glowing fingers and the unmistakable amber color of her eyes.

“Shit.” Myrrah leaned forward in her wheelchair for a better view.

Rheih stood from her chair, though it barely added any height to her vantage point. She mumbled under her breath and walked over to the girls to examine Gwyn more closely.

“I thought this was a bore,” I quipped at her from across the table. The Mage grunted and grabbed Gwyn’s wrist. I turned to the others. “As you can see, something more than an attack happened in those woods.”

Syrra’s rigid body loosened just enough for her to turn her head to Gwyn. Her unfocused gaze cleared as she watched the girl leave amber streaks of light in the air.

Darythir signed something too quick for me to fully catch. But the quick pulse of her hand in front of her chest was unmistakable.

Blood.

“I wonder too,” Rheih answered her. She reached deep into the pockets of her smock and pulled out a needle. Gwyn held out her palm without protest. The Mage pricked the meaty part of her hand and gasped as the amber and gold blood pooled along Gwyn’s skin.

Gwyn didn’t flinch; she just watched as her blood flooded the crater of her palm. She held it higher for the others to gawk at.

“Extraordinary,” Myrrah whispered, stretching in her chair to touch the blood for herself. She rubbed it along her fingertips as if she would be able to feel some physical difference from all the blood she had ever spilled.

I formed a sphere of water from the carafe on the table. Myrrah dipped her fingers into it absentmindedly, the magical blood washing away in thin swirls. She looked to Feron. “There are no stories that speak of such a thing?”

Feron shook his head, interpreting the question for Darythir, who slashed the air once with a flat, tight palm.

Signed Elvish for no .

Myrrah’s awed expression sprouted into a grin. “This is excellent.” She turned to me. “Think of the advantage.” Her icy blue eyes glinted as new plans of attack formed behind them.

“Think of the bloodshed.” My words were sharp and raw like the feeling in my throat. Not the physical burn of craving, but the habit, the desire. That same guilt I had spent decades dodging was curling its fingers around the end of my braid and with one good tug would drown me with it.

Syrra noticed the flex in my neck. She looked down at her hands, both bulging at the knuckles from how tightly she fisted them. She was standing strong against her desires too.

Elaran perched herself on the armrest of an empty chair. “No matter how or when we attack the capital, there will be bloodshed, Keera.” She twisted the end of one of her curls until the slack went straight. “The more Fae soldiers we have, the less there will be.”

Gerarda’s jaw pulsed behind her lover, but she stood with her arms tucked behind her back. Silent.

“Do you think Gwyn’s eyes being amber are a coincidence?” I scoffed, knowing that Elaran was much too smart for that. “It isn’t as simple as turning any willing Elverin into Fae. I would be turning Halflings. Me. Not you. And the moment their eyes turn amber, I would be carving a target onto their chest.”

Fyrel straightened, panic-stricken. “What do you mean?”

Her worried gaze shifted from Gwyn to me.

I flattened my hands onto the table. “Damien will attack the Fae first. As soon as his forces spot anyone using their powers, Damien will attack them with every ship, soldier, and weapon he has. The Fae warriors who remain have trained for centuries; their control over their powers is habit. And they have centuries more experience to know exactly what they are signing up for. But the Halflings you want me to turn into Fae?” I took my time to look around the table. “They are not warriors. They will be vulnerable and many, if not all, will die taking Elverath back for the rest of you.”

Darythir waved her hand.

“You are certain your gifts only extend to Halflings?” Feron interpreted.

My belly hardened. “Unlike Damien, I do not make it a habit of experimenting on others with magic I do not understand.”

“Then you do not know.” The age in Darythir’s cheeks made her frown even more pronounced. Her dark eyes narrowed at me as she leaned forward on the table.

Syrra stood. Her sudden movement made everyone in the room flinch with surprise. She ignored the reactions, only looking at me. “I volunteer to take this test.”

I froze. “Absolutely not.”

“Keera, you cannot paddle in both directions.” Syrra straightened to her full height, her half braid falling from her shoulder. “I agree with you—this war should not be won by filling our front lines with turned Halflings. There are seasoned warriors among the Elves who would gladly take that burden. Let me be the first to claim it.”

I shook my head. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“I have been content as an Elf.” Syrra hid her hands behind her back. “I do not see why that would change.”

“What if the magic is tainted?” I raised a brow and glanced at Riven. “What if my gift does turn you, even though it shouldn’t, because we were greedy enough to push our blessings? What if the magic lashes and festers inside you because you were never meant to exist and you carry the pain of that every day?” Riven shifted behind her chair, keeping his head low underneath his cloak, but I kept going. “Could you live with pain like that? Knowing there would be no guarantee you would have a second form to spare you?”

The room went quiet. Darythir’s brows furrowed at my words, but it was Riven’s place to tell her what I meant.

Riven placed a hand on Syrra’s arm. “Keera is right to ask the question, and you would be right to consider it.”

Whatever gifts I did possess, I knew I didn’t understand them. And though I was not raised in a time or land lush with magic, I knew enough to know that it could always react in unexpected ways.

Some not for the better.

Syrra did not cower. Her neck flexed and her gaze trailed down me like the sharp point of a blade. “Then I shall bear it with gratitude that it was I who volunteered and the burden is not carried by another.”

I rubbed the skin along my palm. My magic itched, yearning to be unleashed once more. I stood strong even as the sensation crept down my body until my bones vibrated.

Syrra had answered her question like any warrior would, but now it was my turn. Would I be able to live with the knowledge that my hands had bestowed that pain on another? Not just another, but a friend.

Darythir leaned back in her chair, eyes shifting between me and Syrra. She would not allow the council to assume there were any restraints on my gift until proven otherwise.

There was no path forward without experimenting on someone.

And if not Syrra, who? She had been the one who had spent her life training as a protector of her realm, her people. Her sister, her lover, her child. Syrra more than anyone knew what the cost a decision like this could be, and she had volunteered anyway.

The itching along my palm intensified to a slow, undeniable burn.

“Fine.” My answer cut through the tension in the room like one of Gerarda’s throwing knives. I nodded to the chair. “You should sit.”

Syrra’s back tensed and somehow her feet sunk lower into the live grain of the floor.

Gwyn caught on to my annoyance and cleared her throat. “Sitting would be best. I lost consciousness for a moment when I turned.”

Syrra narrowed her eyes at Gwyn, but the girl did not waver. She lifted her chin, and her amber eyes glinted with a faint glow.

Syrra nodded once.

“This will be most comfortable,” Feron said with a slow wave of his hand. The grain of the wood behind him split open, revealing pink skies and the cool dusk air with it. Two thick branches slithered through, vines curling down them like intertwining snakes until a soft hammock of green hung between them.

Syrra sat along the edge and lay back. Her feet still planted on the floor.

I stepped forward. The power under my skin hissed like a red-hot poker being pulled from a flame, knowing it was about to brand.

I stood over Syrra. Her long waves brushed against my knee. “You’re certain?”

The scars along her arms twitched. “As sure as my arrow flies.”

Myrrah huffed a laugh but rolled her chair back against the wall. As far away from the magic as possible.

I glanced at the others. “The rest of you should stand back too.”

No one spoke as they made their way to the back wall, covering the seam of grain with their half-curious, half-worried faces.

Only when everyone was as far from me as possible did I lift my hand. It hovered over Syrra’s chest as I let the power dammed inside me overflow. I touched Syrra’s forehead, and the magic rushed forward.

It was different than Gwyn’s transformation. Perhaps because I was not panicked, I could control the speed of the magic as it poured out of me in ribbons of gold light. Riven gasped as the light twisted around Syrra’s arms, as deft and tangible as his shadows had been.

The light trailed up the length of Syrra’s body and then down. It tapped her scars wherever her skin met the air, searching like a mouse for a hole to crawl into.

But it didn’t find one.

I held my breath, waiting for the light to sink into Syrra, gripping her the way my magic had with Gwyn, but it didn’t come. Instead the gold ribbons began to fade at the end as they retreated back into my palm. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine. My body became a waterfall for magic with no place to go.

The magic felt cooler on its return, unspent and sad.

Syrra opened her eyes. They were as dark as ever.

Darythir clucked her tongue as Rheih inspected Syrra’s brown irises. She tugged on her lids until Syrra swatted her hand away.

“Keera’s suspicions were correct.” The Mage turned back around, the tug of curiosity pulling at her lips. “Only a Halfling can receive her gifts.”

I shook my head. “Only a Halfling can receive my curse.”

Elaran scoffed and leaned back on her chair so her body was draped over it like silk. “Unfair of you to call it a curse while you stand there with more gifts than any other Fae, living or dead.” The room went still. Elaran smiled softly at Gwyn. “Do you feel cursed, lovely?”

Gwyn’s body hardened. “Not at all.”

“We don’t even know what her powers are.” My hand clenched.

“Precisely,” Elaran said, her face sharp and pinched. “So you cannot decide for her whether it’s a curse or not.” She flicked her wrist. “Perhaps you shouldn’t decide at all.”

My jaw snapped shut. Elaran smirked and slowly pulled the sharp pin from her bundle of curls. Riven leaped over the back of the chair in front of him and placed himself between me and her before my hand had fully gripped my dagger.

“So reactive,” Elaran purred.

“How else do you expect others to respond to threats?” Riven’s nostrils flared wide as his hand grabbed for his own weapon. The shadow of his hood shifting dangerously close to his eyes.

Gerarda stepped in front Elaran without a hint of fear in her face. She looked bored, the smallest staring up at the largest Elverin in the room. “El was not making a threat.”

“I was actually.” She crossed her arms.

Feron leaned forward on his cane. “I expect this conversation to be civil.”

Gerarda plucked the weapon from Elaran’s hand before she could issue another threat. “Perhaps we should discuss this later. When everyone’s had time to digest what’s transpired.”

Elaran drummed her fingers along her arm. “What is there to digest other than Keera holds victory in her hand and refuses to use it?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It is not that simple.”

Elaran’s brows perked upward. “No? Then perhaps you want to keep the magic all for yourself?” She leaned forward, head resting on Gerarda’s shoulder, who fought to keep her body between ours. “Scared that if you give away too much of your magic, there’ll be nothing left for you?”

My anger broiled. How did Elaran not see that was the least of my worries? If Damien’s army was not preparing for war, I would gladly do whatever I needed to be rid of my magic. From the moment my mother placed me in that godforsaken tree, all magic had done was hand me decisions of ruin.

Feron stood with his arm extended to the door. “We should discuss this after breakfast.”

I ignored him. “Perhaps it’s you who wants it all for herself?” I lifted my hand. The palm was pulsing with golden light. “Don’t hide behind the fate of the war when all you want is a taste.”

Elaran stepped forward, grabbing my dagger from its sheath. Riven slid his weapon out, but Elaran merely cut a slit through her woven sleeve, exposing her tan skin. “Do it then.”

My heart thrummed in my chest, pulsing so heavily it echoed in my skull, drowning out the explosion of voices in the room. The intoxicating warmth of that new magic flooded through me, coaxing me into unleashing it out of spite. To give in to the momentary goodness of that relief.

No.

I swallowed. My days of succumbing to my whims were over. I did not want to do this, so I wouldn’t. No matter how much Elaran or my magic pulled me into it.

I opened my mouth to say just that when a thick branch wrapped around my waist and Elaran’s too. We were both flung backward, hurtled to opposite sides of the room.

For the first time, I could see true anger on Feron’s ancient face. His long twists swayed behind him as he stepped into the middle of the room, his cane knocking against the floor the only sound anyone made at all.

“Enough.” His disgust was heavy on his tongue. “I will not have such chaos present at this council.” He turned to me. “I agree with Keera.”

Elaran huffed a disappointed laugh.

“For now,” Feron added. “Until we discern the extent of Gwyn’s gifts and their reliability, it is best that Keera does not turn anyone else.”

My shoulders eased against Riven’s chest.

Feron’s eyes glowed violet, unfocusing for the briefest moment. Then his brow flickered and his focus returned to the room. “It seems we have a more pressing matter.”

The wall split open just as Feron finished his words, revealing a short Halfling with stitched ears and a fastener along his cloak.

A courier.

Feron held out his hand. The Halfling was holding a letter.

“It’s not for you.” The Halfling boy bowed his head apologetically to Feron. “It’s for her.”

He turned to me with an outstretched hand. I flipped the envelope to find the red seal of crossed sheaves of wheat. The sigil of the House of Harvest.

I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a finely dyed piece of parchment.

Lord Kilmor cordially invites you to celebrate the inauguration of the new king.

Riven peered over my shoulder. “The ball?”

But I wasn’t reading the rest of the invitation. I barely noticed the date.

All I saw was the delicate scrawl across the top. It was the same writing that filled my notebooks with frantic messages back and forth for months.

It’s time .

Dynara was ready to bring the courtesans home.