Page 11

Everly

T he dining hall was carved from midnight ice, lit by enchanted starlight that danced across vaulted ceilings and glimmered along crystalline walls. It was a room built to awe and unsettle, much like the male seated at the head of the table.

The king radiated a silence so cold and heavy it stole all the air in the room. And yet, he seemed perfectly at ease, sipping from his crystal goblet like he wasn’t actively suffocating his people with his presence alone.

Or maybe that was just me, seated in the first chair to his left, closer to him than I wished I was and far too subject to his scrutiny.

The courtiers worked desperately to pierce that silence. They filled it with endless idle chatter, sweet on the surface, but hollow underneath. Every remark was artfully tossed in his direction, never in mine, underpinned by a parade of shared memories meant to remind him who belonged here.

And who didn’t.

When I was younger, I used to imagine dinners like this, pieced together from my books and the stories Wynnie whispered late at night. She hated court functions, but told me about them anyway. Said they were gilded traps where words could cut deeper than blades, and one wrong word could draw blood.

Still, we would hold pretend dinners where she taught me all the etiquette. She claimed it was to prepare me, in case our father ever changed his mind. I always suspected it was to keep me from being jealous.

Now, seated at a table full of monsters in silk, flashing their teeth like daggers and calling it diplomacy, I didn’t feel envy. I just wished I had been there beside her. Not to fit in, but to mock the whole frosted circus together.

I wished she was here now for the same reason, or even just to glare back. These pompous pricks had nothing on my sister’s withering stare.

I shifted slightly, careful not to jostle the fur muff in my lap. The tiny menace must’ve curled up inside when I wasn’t looking, burrowing into the furs for warmth or actively hiding from the king.

Because of course I would smuggle a venomous skathryn into a formal court gathering where my life was already on the line.

The king’s wolves had stared at me the whole walk here, their heads tilting in question, noses in the air as they tried to sniff her out. He had cast more than one suspicious glance in my direction, and I had shrugged like I was just as baffled as he was.

At least they had stayed in the hall.

I traced the path between her ears, using both her warmth and deep, even breaths to calm myself. In a sea of blood-thirsty nobles, the bat was quite possibly my only ally.

Well, her and Nevara, but the Visionary was seated at the other end of the room and as taciturn as ever.

She seemed untouched by it all. No one dared address her, not even the servants, aside from filling her cup whenever she raised it. No one else looked too long in her direction, almost as if they were afraid she might See something they would rather keep buried.

A feeling I related to, but one that had abated in the past week.

Nevara didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she looked amused somewhere under her icy facade. A knowing smile teased at the corners of her mouth as she sipped slowly from her goblet, like she was in on a secret the rest of us hadn’t caught up to yet.

Which, of course, she was.

Servants moved like shadows between the tables, offering trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres balanced on thin sheets of ice: spiced nuts dusted with frost-sugar, miniature tarts with candied snowberries, bite-sized parcels of smoked venison wrapped in translucent sheets of iced pear, and frosted brie bites drizzled with winterberry reduction, served on shards of crystallized cracker bark.

My stomach growled as my indignation simmered, remembering the many boiled roots I had suffered through.

I waited until the other courtiers ate, ensuring I used the right utensil as I tried not to inhale each new bite of perfection. It was harder with one hand in the arm muff around the frost bat still nestled against my stomach, but I managed.

When my stomach was somewhat satisfied, I reached for my goblet. Liquid starlight shimmered inside, dark as midnight, flecked with silver and dotted with frost-coated berries.

The scent hit me in waves of blackberries, spun sugar, with a hint of violet and citrus. After days of bland food and dry toast, it was absolutely intoxicating.

I took a sip, tentative. The wine bloomed across my tongue. It was sparkling, effervescent, like tiny fireworks going off behind my teeth. A quiet sigh escaped me. I drank even more.

Maybe this dinner would be bearable after all.

With every ounce of restraint I could muster, I placed the goblet back on the polished ice-glass table to save the rest for my meal.

A beat passed. Then came the delicate chime of incredulous laughter.

“Where are you from again?” purred a courtier from across the table.

Her tone was nearly as sharp as her cheekbones, her insinuation clear.

I subtly assessed the plate in front of me, finding nothing amiss. I had been careful to keep my palms concealed, but was there a crumb on my face? Had I spilled something? I glanced down, but there was no wine on my gown.

Then my eyes landed on my goblet. My stupid, gleaming glass of deliciousness, sitting proudly on the wrong side of my plate like it was mocking me.

It was a social misstep so small it would’ve gone unnoticed in any sane room, but here, among the vipers, it was blood in the water. I wanted to laugh, and to throw my drink in their ridiculous faces…

But that would just be a waste of good wine.

The king saved me the trouble of responding.

“Lady Thessara” his voice whipped through the air, silencing every last echo of amusement. “Whose background were you curious about?”

She swallowed, going visibly pale. “Your wi—the queen’s, Your Majesty.”

“And yet, you failed to address her as so.” His tone was deceptively casual, as it had been in the throne room.

Just before he executed the heiress.

The courtiers next to her looked on with scarcely concealed glee, happily willing to sacrifice one of their own for the noble cause of entertaining themselves.

Lady Thessara dipped her head as far as it would go. “My apologies, Your Majesty—Your Majesties,” she corrected. “It seems I have forgotten my own upbringing.”

She didn’t lift her head. Every eye in the room rested on the precarious scene.

My chest was tight, and even my tiny bat had gone completely still.

But King Draven only nodded, a single sharp dip of his chin. “Indeed.”

Silence saturated the room for several stilted heartbeats before a brave soul at the end of the table dared to pick up conversation again. It didn’t quite reach the volume it had before, but soon a steady hum of voices filled the room once more.

No one else dared to direct a comment at me, and the king had turned his attention to the male seated across from me.

The skathryn and I finally exhaled at the same time. I reached for the offending goblet again just as a figure to my left leaned in.

“I did the same thing my first night here,” the male murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “They’re quick to pounce. Slower to help. The Winter Court likes their prey easy.”

I turned slightly to glance at him.

He had been one of the few in attendance who hadn’t made a game of ignoring me so much as he had been steeped in a conversation with the fae lord at his left.

Now he lounged in his chair like the court was an elaborate game he’d already won. His raven hair was pulled back in a careless knot, a few loose strands falling against the nape of his neck with the kind of effortless disarray that was definitely not accidental.

He was not from Winter, clearly.

His skin was sun-warmed, his features all sharp lines and smirking elegance. But it was his eyes that did me in. Amber flames flickered with every shade of gold, angular and framed by thick, dark lashes. They brought to mind Autumn leaves and living campfires.

Shard Mother help me… he was handsome. The kind of handsome that made your survival instincts start whispering prayers. The kind that looked like temptation wrapped in trouble and tied with a smirk.

I didn’t trust pretty things. I especially didn’t trust pretty things that smiled like they knew all your secrets and were just waiting to name their price.

Still, I was grateful. He hadn’t needed to step in, but, here he was, tossing me a rope in a room full of ice-dragons and daring me to accept his assistance.

“It would be unfortunate then, if any of them mistook me for something resembling prey,” I said with a grin, infusing my words with all of the confidence I didn’t feel.

He raised his glass in a silent toast, his smirk growing wider.

A flicker of warmth curled low in my chest, something almost like comfort, only to be stolen when the wind howled even louder than before. King Draven’s glare bore into the side of my face, pointed enough that I sensed it even before I looked at him to confirm.

He sipped from his crystal goblet like he had all the time in the world to assess whatever moment he had just witnessed. A line cut between his brows, subtle but telling.

Like he was taking my measure.

I straightened in my seat, bracing myself for whatever judgment he would pass, but was saved by the loud groan of a door. The air in the room shifted yet again.

Conversation halted as a steward rushed forward, his focus locked in on the king.

The male bent low to murmur quietly enough that even the nosy courtiers couldn’t hear.

I strained my ears, just as the male across from me pointedly cleared his throat.

Though he was directing his scowl at the rest of the table, it effectively covered the sound of the steward’s words.

Whatever he said made the king’s jaw tighten. King Draven turned back to the male at his side.

“Lord General.” He tilted his head toward the door in a clear command.

The male ran a hand over his face, emphasizing the roadmap of scars that marred his symmetrical features. With a quick dip of his chin, he stood from the table. The king did as well, leading the Lord General from the room without a word.

My stomach twisted tighter, dread coiling in my ribs.

I thought about the frostbeasts outside the palace walls, the hunt they had just returned from today. Did something else happen?

No one else at the table so much as blinked. Did that mean they weren’t worried?

That I shouldn’t be?

I barely had time to parse through the answers about literal frostbeasts before the monsters in front of me bared their teeth, emboldened by the absence of their exacting ruler.

“She’s so quiet,” came a syrupy voice from down the table.

I tracked it to a female with ashen hair and violet eyes. Her circlet was just this side of looking like a crown, a shining beacon of her own self importance.

“I assumed the king had locked her in the tower to hibernate,” she commented in what might have been an undertone, had she not pitched it just loud enough to carry throughout the room.

“I thought she was still being taught which fork to use,” another chimed in with a laugh like shattered glass. “After all, she grew up a peasant, did she not?”

“So, the vultures descend again,” I muttered.

I had meant for the thought to stay internal… a plan that had failed superbly.

Scandalized expressions lit up the table, some of them excited that I was playing along, others appearing surprised I could speak at all. All of them leaned closer.

“No, no. Surely you’ve heard.” This time it was a male who spoke, lips tilted up in a cruel smirk.

He sat next to a female who had to be his twin. Something in her violet eyes and the tilt of her narrow chin was niggling at my memory, but I couldn’t place it before her brother spoke again.

“She’s the Elarion bastard.”

The word was like a gauntlet thrown in the middle of the table, echoing through the dining hall with all of the force that was intended.

Bastard.

“Whenever her father climbs off his most recent whore to visit court, he tells us of the strange little bastard child that stalks the halls of his estate,” he continued, relishing the attention his story was gaining him from the rest of the room.

I forced a smile, even if it did feel closer to feral than placating. He was creative, I would give him that, but he was wrong on two counts.

My father never climbed off his whores if he could help it, let alone to come to court, and he certainly would never acknowledge my existence.

I lifted my goblet again, considering how many ways I could destroy the male with one well-placed phrase, and whether or not the social repercussions would be worth it when the court already despised me.

Before I could decide, the male I assumed was the Autumn emissary spoke again, this time louder.

“In the Autumn Court, we don’t cling to such quaint notions as bastardry,” he said easily. “Blood is blood, and strength is strength, no matter how it’s borne. A refreshing change, don’t you think, from the usual inbred snobbery?”

A few courtiers gasped, and his answering grin was a wicked, wicked thing.

I choked on a laugh. He reminded me of Wynnie, and while that didn’t make me trust him, it made it hard not to like him a little.

He winked at me, not lewd so much as strategic, declaring an alliance made in a moment of shared mockery.

I almost smiled back. Almost.

“Of course, Lord Soren,” said a familiar voice from the far end of the table, quiet but clear. “But let’s not interrupt their musings. I know our king will be quite eager to hear their thoughts on the parentage of his Fate-chosen queen…which should be…”

Nevara tilted her head toward the doors, “…any second now.”

She twisted her lips in a bare hint of amusement, knocking back the last of her wine in one fluid motion. She raised her glass for another, pretending not to notice the way she had silenced the entire table with a single line.

Just like with the emissary, I wasn’t sure if she was protecting me for my sake, the king’s, or her own mysterious designs.

But I was grateful anyway.

The Autumn emissary raised his glass to her with a quiet, “Hear, hear.”

I polished off the rest of my wine as well. In solidarity, yes. But also because I didn’t need Nevara’s gifts to know I was going to need it.