Page 40

Summer

I ’m given no warning. Not even an official dinner invitation. A single fae guard with ash-rimmed eyes shows up at my door and shoves a dark purple outfit into my arms.

“Put this on,” he says.

I inspect the mulberry-colored leather corset, laced to create a low-cut neckline. Embroidered vines curl over the long skirt that flows beneath it, the right side slashed with a deep split.

“Do you have anything in black?” I ask, aiming to annoy. “It’s a little too festive for my liking.”

His scowl tells me he has no patience for smartasses. “Hurry up. I’ll wait outside the door.”

After I wash my face, I change into the dress, leaving my hair loose and my anxiety running wild.

As promised, the guard is waiting beside my door. Without a word, he motions for me to follow.

“Any point in asking your name?” I say eventually, still pacing the endless hallways—two thousand and thirty-three steps so far.

“No.”

“Right. Then at least tell me where we’re going.”

“Dinner in the hall,” he croaks, his voice rough, like a crow choking on a fat worm.

“Sounds great,” I lie, skipping to keep up with him. “As long as I’m not the main course.”

The large black doors loom ahead. I hold my breath as they swing open, wink at one of the creepy, translucent faces drifting across the shiny obsidian surface, and step into the revel.

The hall feels different tonight—more claustrophobic, like the walls are inching inward. Cold radiates up through the stone, nipping at my ankles even through my boots. And the air carries a damp, metallic scent, like wet coins laced with smoke. Strangely familiar. Uncomfortably so.

A flicker of a memory strikes—my bare feet hitting this same stone floor, music that wouldn’t stop, the pain of raw hunger twisting my gut as I spun and spun and spun.

I shove the memory down before it can finish unfolding. What the hell is going on? Landolin said I wouldn’t remember my past at the Shade Court. Couldn’t remember it. Is something changing?

The throne room is still vast and unsettling, but this time, more details leap out.

Twenty-six arched beams rise overhead like the ribs of a cage, while curtains of deep red amaranth flowers—love-lies-bleeding—drape from the rafters, swaying gently to the eerie music.

Hundreds of floating orbs cast dim, shifting light over the courtiers, shadows crawling across their faces and robes.

The Shade fae wear masks, headdresses, and crowns, all crafted to resemble antlers, crow wings, snake heads, wolf snouts and other symbols of creatures from nightmares.

They dance either out of time with the beat, too fast, or disturbingly slow, their movements erratic.

Others watch from the edges of the dance floor, dark stone goblets cradled in their hands.

Landolin sits at the bottom of the golden steps that lead to the dais, as if he’s been waiting for me. But when he catches my eye, he looks away without a greeting. Says nothing.

The king, Moiron Ravenseeker, perches on the throne, the seven glowing moons strung like party lights outside the window behind him.

I could’ve sworn they were higher in the sky this afternoon, when I walked around the town, but I know better than to expect this place to abide by the rules of logic.

Antlers made of blackened metal crown Moiron’s deep blue hair, his silver robes stitched with hundreds of tiny feathers. When he moves his hands, ash trails behind his fingers, and the red glow in his eyes sends a shiver creeping down my spine.

Flanked by guards, I take thirty-nine shaky steps to reach Landolin—who beckons me forward, wasting no time before leading me up the stairs to present me to his father.

Moiron sniffs, inspecting me like I’m a stain on his favorite cloak. “So,” he says to his son, his red-hued eyes still trailing over me. “This is your thrall, fully grown.”

I try to meet his gaze without flinching, but I find myself glancing away every few seconds. Damn. Those ember-lit eyes freak me the fuck out .

“The one and only,” Landolin replies.

Moiron clicks his tongue. “Are you certain? She looks too soft. ”

I raise my chin. “Can you blame me? It’s been a very long week.”

Several fae nearby chuckle. Most just stare, probably hoping the Shade King’s shadows will swallow me whole. Or worse, that he’ll bludgeon me to death with one of his spiked arm bracers.

Moiron leans forward. “At midnight, you will stand trial, and we’ll see what you’re made of. Until then…” His fingers curl, and vines I hadn’t even noticed shift beneath my feet, winding around my legs like ropes. “…Enjoy the revel.”

“I’d probably enjoy the scenery more if I wasn’t being gift-wrapped in vines like a sacrifice to the Shade Court’s forest gods. Any chance you’ll untie your decorative greenery?”

Embarrassment burns through me as the king lazily flicks a hand. I drop to the floor—flat on my ass—the vines still coiled tight around my legs. So that’s a no, then.

Two fae close in, offering me a plate of cheese and sweet-smelling pastries. Even though I’m terrified of being put under a spell and becoming a thrall again, I’m so hungry that I gobble the food up and chase it down with a cup of wine, taking in the sights and sounds around me.

The hall hums with low music—plucked strings and something deeper, bone horns maybe, similar to the Wild Hunt’s but quieter and slightly jollier. Laughter echoes off the stone walls. Should be a comforting sound, but to my ears it sounds malicious, even threatening.

Courtiers drift between dining tables in leather corsets, silk robes, and extravagant armor, showing enough skin to make a mirror in the mortal world blush. Their smiles are nasty, their pupils blown wide—like cats hunting in the dark .

Some look like monsters from childhood nightmares, rows of horns jutting from their brows.

Their skin ripples as if something crawls beneath it—bodies scaled, bloodied, wrapped in smoky shadows.

Many possess a wild, lethal beauty, their bodies poised to strike, like animals before they lunge for their prey.

I search for dancing humans in the crowd. Thralls, like I once was, relieved when I find none.

A small table rests between the king and Landolin’s thrones, now cleared of food but still set with goblets and candles. I perch on the top step—just another curiosity in a grand museum of oddities.

The music winds up, growing louder and weirder. I spot a few familiar faces from the castle halls and my walk around the city, including Misery, the winged fae with the bone who tried to rattle me earlier today. She raises her cup in a mock salute.

Landolin watches me, somehow looking both bored and intense, and Moiron smiles like he’s counting the ticket sales for my execution.

Hell, I wish Wyn were here, standing beside me, doing that growly, overprotective thing he does best. I wish I were back home at Gravenshade—Ollie head-butting my book in bed, while I read too late into the night, Mom’s ghost muttering unsolicited life advice through the steam in the bathroom mirror. Anywhere but here.

My chest tightens like I’ve run a mile uphill. I clench my jaw, blink too fast, and try not to spiral and count my own heartbeat or the many doorways I could bolt through.

I don’t have my meds. Don’t have a plan. But I refuse to let the fear leak out. Not in tears. Not in twitches. Not even in the rate of my breathing .

No one here gets to see me freak out. I just have to stay calm, and if I can survive the trial, I can survive whatever comes after. I have to.

To stop the panic from snowballing, I shift my focus to earlier today, my thoughts a little muddled from the wine.

The city didn’t offer any great secrets or unexpected comforts, but at least I was outside in the fresh air. Sort of. If you count alleys that reek of smoke, spoiled food, and the charming scent of frying offal.

The city butcher sold meat I couldn’t identify—and didn’t want to.

A bookstore was stacked with volumes that whispered about me when I turned my back.

I passed a musician playing a flute carved from something that looked disturbingly like a human spine, earning coins and applause from fae who danced around him five feet off the ground, wings flapping lazily as they spun.

I walked fast, told myself I was exploring. But really, I was mapping every exit and gate I could find. Every corner looked like it might open into freedom, but none of them did. And even if one had, the sentient wards would never have let me leave.

I’d never felt so caged under an open sky, grim and sunless as it had been this afternoon.

In the hall, the hum of conversation rises and falls around me. Goblets clink. Laughter creeps over my skin, making my flesh crawl. And eyes, too many to count, track my every breath, piercing through the space between us.

I stay where I am, having already shuffled myself and Moiron’s vines halfway down the steps below the dais. It’s the perfect spot—far enough away to be ignored, close enough to catch the voices drifting down from above .

Landolin and Moiron Ravenseeker speak in that careless, booming way that says they either don’t care who hears them, or assume no one would dare to listen.

Well, I dare. And I am listening.

“What will you do if your trial reveals her to be useless?” Moiron says, his voice low but steady.

“The court grows restless for an answer to your… predicament. Yurendyl have kept two of our Carrion for several days before sending them home carrying their banner. We need the right girl, and we need her now .”

The Carrion. They were the riders Irren mentioned to Landolin yesterday in the courtyard. The secret he wanted kept. I wonder how the king came to learn of it, and what it all means for me.

“ This girl is here now,” Landolin replies. “And the trial will reveal her hidden talent. I wish it to be so, and there is no other option.”

The trial. Fuck. I hope I won’t be called upon to raise the city’s dead warriors before vanquishing them all in a battle—because there’s fat chance of that happening. If I had a secret magical gift, I’d know. I’m a ghost whisperer. That’s about as impressive as it gets.

“And I ask again,” snarls Moiron, “if she fails, will you sit quietly and watch me dispose of her, or make a fuss?”

“Let’s worry about that when the time comes, Father.” Landolin’s laugh is quiet and humorless. “Besides, when have you ever cared about what I think?”

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Moiron lounges with the lazy ease of absolute power, knowing no one would dare oppose him. Landolin stands beside his throne, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor as if willing the stone to swallow him, while shadows lick at his boots.

“I advise you not to take that tone with me,” says Moiron. “Don’t forget what happened last time you defied me. You lead the Hunt. And you will lead this girl to the truth of what she is or, alternatively, to her death.”

Landolin doesn’t argue. He simply nods. But when Moiron turns away, I swear the Shade Prince’s jaw tightens hard enough to crack, and three of his shadows form the shapes of tiny spears.

The king rises, and the court falls silent, waiting for him to speak.

He barks out three sharp words, “To the Hollow,” and the fae stream through the main exit like birds startled from trees, their piercing shrieks and laughter making me cover my ears.