Page 3

Sapphire

Eventually, the Summer Palace rises before us.

Its golden domes gleam in the starlight, its terraces bursting with vibrant flowers that glow like the sun. The entire structure seems to pulse with warmth—a welcome contrast to the frozen grandeur of the Winter Court.

But I don’t care.

I barely see any of it.

Because he’s insisting on walking next to me. Riven. His presence alone is suffocating—a constant, inescapable weight pressing down on my chest—and to make it even worse, he won’t stop talking.

“—when we enter, let me speak first,” he continues, smooth and measured. “Diplomatic law requires them to acknowledge a formal request from the Winter Court to speak with the Summer Queen, but they don’t have to be friendly about it. The less you antagonize them, the better.”

I cut him off with a glare. “By all means, Your Highness,” I say. “Lead the way. Wouldn’t want to risk me speaking out of turn and ruining your flawless plan.”

He glances over at me, the moonlight casting sharp angles across his arrogant, unreadable, beautifully infuriating face. “We can do this the easy way,” he says as we near the gates, “or we can do this your way. Which, given the aftermath of Eros’s arrow, seems likely to result in emotional breakdowns and exhausting tantrums.”

The air presses in around us, like a storm ready to break, and I reach for my dagger.

Before I can unsheathe it, Riven’s fingers close around my wrist.

Agony explodes in my chest—a brutal, crushing force that steals the breath from my lungs. The pain isn’t physical, but it might as well be.

Because in that moment, I’m everywhere at once. I’m back in the Winter Court, trembling beneath Riven’s cold, assessing stare. I’m in his arms, gasping his name as he whispers promises that were never meant to last. I’m running through the forest with Zoey, waiting for Riven to help us, believing for one impossible second that he might actually care.

The memories keep coming, and coming, until they’re drowning me completely.

Finally—eventually—Riven’s grip slackens.

His silver eyes flick to mine, and for the first time since this nightmare started, his amusement dims. Just slightly. Enough that I see the questions forming behind them.

Tears well behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

“See?” His voice is infuriatingly soft—a cruel contrast to the pain shattering my heart. “Case in point.”

And, just like that, he releases me.

The moment his touch is gone, the pain disappears. But the ache it leaves behind stays, lingering in my bones, in my pulse, and in the hollow space inside my chest where my heart used to be.

His eyes land on my dagger.

“Put that away,” he says. “Brandishing weapons while walking into a foreign court is a good way to get oneself killed.”

I glare at him, hating that he’s already found something new to exploit and twist against me.

But as much as I hate it—and him—his point is valid. So, with shaking fingers, I return the dagger to its sheath.

“Good.” He studies me closely, as if he’s searching for something he can’t quite place. “Are you okay?”

“Do you care?” I shoot back, and he tilts his head, as if considering it.

Then, just like that, his icy shield goes back up, any trace of emotion gone.

“I take that as a yes,” he says coldly, not speaking another word as we continue toward the palace.

Eventually, we reach the gates, and the two guards posted at either side of the stone entrance stiffen at our approach. Their expressions are neutral—carefully so—but there’s something different when they see me. A slight widening of their eyes. A split-second hesitation.

Something that feels off.

Riven shifts beside me, adopting that insufferably regal stance of his.

“I’m Prince Riven Draevor of the Winter Court,” he says calmly, as if this is the type of grand entrance he makes every day. “I’m invoking diplomatic law and requesting an audience with Queen Lysandra.”

The guards’ grip on their weapons tightens, but Riven continues before they can respond.

“As a royal visitor who has declared no harm against the Summer Court, I hold a right to be escorted to the throne room. And while your queen isn’t required to meet me there, the survival of both our courts depends on what I’ve come here to say.”

The shorter guard studies him, then gestures at me, his fingers curled around the hilt of the blade sheathed by his side.

“And her?” he asks.

“She’s with me.” Riven’s voice brooks no argument. “And denying a diplomatic request would be a violation of the ancient accords. Do you wish to be the ones to answer for that?”

Again, the guards hesitate.

“You do know the law,” Riven presses them further. “Do you not?”

I can practically see the calculations running through the guards’ minds.

Finally, the taller guard nods. “You speak truly of the law, Prince Riven of the Winter Court,” he says, clipped and professional. “Come inside, and we’ll escort you to the throne room.”

* * *

The walls in the Summer Palace shimmer with an inner radiance, and everywhere I look, there are flowers blooming from vines that twist along the ceiling.

It should feel welcoming. This is supposed to be my court, after all.

But something about the way the guards keep stealing glances at me sets my teeth on edge.

“Here.” The shorter guard stops before a set of towering gold doors and opens them, revealing a massive chamber where summer magic pulses from every surface. Columns with bright green vines climb to where a blanket of sweet-smelling flowers cover the ceiling, and the marble floor gleams so much that it looks like it’s made of sunlight itself.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

Riven’s lip curls slightly. “If you enjoy feeling like you’re trapped inside a greenhouse.”

I stiffen, since it’s the kind of comment he’d make before he threw everything between us away. And now, I can’t tell if he’s trying to get a rise out of me, or if this is who he’s always been, stripped of the illusion I once believed in.

I shoot him a glare, but he’s already moving further into the room.

The guards watch his every movement.

“The queen has been informed of your arrival,” the shorter guard says. “You will wait here.”

More guards line the walls—at least a dozen of them. Their eyes track both of us, but it’s me they’re watching the closest.

“Quite the welcoming committee,” Riven murmurs, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Of course—the Summer Palace must be designed to weaken winter fae.

For once, Riven’s the one struggling. It’s not anywhere close to the pain he caused me, but for now, as we stand here waiting for the queen, it’ll do.

A glance at the ornate gold clock above the throne shows that it’s 4:03 AM.

Only about two hours until six. The time when Central Park opens, and we’ll have our window of entry back into the mortal realm.

Finally, at 4:08 AM, the huge doors at the far end of the room swing open, and Queen Lysandra glides through.

She moves like sunlight, her golden gown trailing behind her in a whisper of fabric and magic. At her side walks a younger fae who must be close to my age, although something about her seems... different. Less radiant. As if she’s a worn-down penny in this shiny place.

Lysandra’s human child, I remember the Winter King ranting the first time Zoey and I met him in the Winter Court.

But it’s the queen who holds my attention. Because looking at her is like looking in a mirror.

The same white-blonde hair. The same sharp cheekbones. The same nose, and even the same shaped lips.

You cannot deceive me, Lysandra, the Winter King said to me in his throne room. Those blue streaks in your hair are hardly a convincing disguise.

But I can’t get a good look at the queen’s eyes, because she isn’t looking at me.

Her focus is purely on Riven.

And he’s just standing there, cold and composed, as if he didn’t rip my heart to shreds a few hours ago and throw it out to rot.

“Prince Riven Draevor,” the queen says, inclining her head ever so slightly. “The Winter Court rarely graces these halls with its presence. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Riven steps forward, offering the kind of perfectly measured bow that only royalty could manage—low enough to be respectful, but not so deep that it suggests submission.

“Your Majesty,” he greets smoothly. “The need for this visit outweighs any courtesy of prior notice. I bring urgent matters that concern not just my court, but yours as well.”

The silence stretches.

Then, finally, the queen speaks again.

“Leave us,” she says to the guards, not bothering to turn in their direction. “And take Freesia with you.”

They leave with the dull, brown-haired girl, the doors shutting behind them with an echoing finality.

Now, it’s just me, Riven, and the queen.

I don’t know whether I want to demand answers, scream, or turn around and walk out altogether. But before I can even open my mouth?—

Riven speaks for me.

“This is Sapphire Hayes,” he says, motioning to me as if I’m a footnote in his grand adventure. “She fell into the Winter Court a few weeks ago, confused and afraid, with water magic she didn’t understand. She was raised in the mortal realm by an aunt who looks nothing like her, and a mother she’s never known. So, tell me, Your Majesty,” he continues, each word as sharp as ice. “How does a summer fae changeling end up living as a human in Presque Isle, Maine?”

Throughout everything he says, Lysandra still won’t look at me. She won’t even acknowledge my existence.

I might as well be a speck of dirt to Her Royal Majesty the Summer Queen. Unworthy of entering her court, let alone being in her throne room. Unworthy of being spoken to. Unworthy of anything at all.

And I know that feeling far too well. Because I saw it in Riven’s eyes when he looked at me after kissing the dryad.

Just like that, the pain of that moment slams into me with unrelenting force. And as the fury grows—accompanied by the shame from when Riven told me I meant nothing to him—my magic flares to the surface.

Wind blows through the throne room, scattering flower petals and knocking a trinket from one of the tables lining the walls.

Finally, the queen’s attention snaps to me, and the resemblance is impossible to deny.

“Air magic,” she says softly. “You’re not just a summer fae. You’re also part vampire. And you have your father’s eyes. Damien Fairmont. The vampire king of New York City.”