Chapter 13: Avallen
The cutter glided into a harbor carved from the same pale stone as the cliffs above. The water here was calmer, a placid, unnatural blue that reflected the jagged majesty of the spires looming over them. The dock they approached was long and elegant, devoid of the usual fishing nets or cargo boxes. It was a stage, empty except for a single, waiting contingent.
Aria pulled Ithan's jacket tighter around her, the scent of her brother and pack a small shield against the alien beauty. The people on the dock were still at this distance, but she could feel their eyes. Dae’s posture had changed the moment the mists parted; the boy who had held her through her sickness was gone, replaced by a statue of a prince. He stood at the railing beside her, one hand resting on the cold steel, the other—the new one—curled into a loose fist at his side.
Ruhn joined them, his shadows coiling restlessly at his feet despite the bright sun. “Nervous?” he asked, though his gaze was fixed on the figures awaiting them.
“Terrified,” Aria admitted quietly, her stomach still performing a slow, nauseous roll that had nothing to do with the calm water. “I look like I got dragged through a storm drain.”
“You kind of did,” Ruhn said, a ghost of a smirk on his face. Then his eyes tracked up to the tallest figure at the forefront of the greeting party. His smirk vanished. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping, “you think your father will try to rip my head off again?”
Dae didn’t look at him. His hazel eyes were locked on the distant figure of the Fae King. “Possibly.”
“Comforting.” Aria muttered the word into the collar of Dae’s jacket.
The engines cut to a low hum, and the cutter eased alongside the dock with a gentle bump. Ropes were thrown, magic-secured. The gangway descended with a soft hiss. The waiting party didn’t move.
“Let me go first,” Dae said, his voice low. It wasn’t a suggestion. He stepped onto the gangway, his movements fluid and deliberate. Every trace of the weary, affectionate male from the boat was locked away. This was the Crown Prince, shoulders straight, head high, an unreadable mask settled over his features.
Aria followed, her legs still unsteady. Knuckle and Track fell into step behind her, a solid, quiet wall of muscle and watchfulness. Ruhn brought up the rear, his posture deceptively casual.
The air in Avallen was different. It was thicker, richer, scented with blooming night-flowers and crisp ozone. Magic didn’t just hum here; it vibrated, a constant, low-grade pressure against her skin. As they reached the end of the dock, the details of the waiting Fae snapped into focus.
King Oren Donnall was every inch the monarch. He was as tall as Dae, but broader, hardened by centuries of rule. His hair was the color of winter wheat, shot through with silver, and his eyes were a cold, flinty grey. He wore robes of deep indigo, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like actual starlight. His expression was one of carved marble: imperious, dispassionate, and utterly disappointed.
To his right stood a female who could only be Dae’s mother. Queen Lyra was willowy and poised, her beauty ethereal and chilling. Her platinum hair was woven into an intricate crown of braids, and her eyes, the same hazel as Dae’s, held none of their warmth. They scanned over Aria like she was a stain on the pristine dock.
Flanking them were a dozen members of the Royal Guard in polished silver armor, their faces hidden behind ornate helms. Each held a spear tipped with a shard of glowing crystal.
Dae stopped a respectful distance from his father and bowed his head, a bare millimeter. “Your Majesties.”
King Oren’s gaze swept over him, lingering on the borrowed, ill-fitting pack clothes. “Daemian.” The name was a verdict. “You return looking… weathered.”
“The journey was eventful,” Dae replied, his tone neutral.
The king’s eyes shifted past him, past Ruhn, and landed directly on Aria. The disdain was a physical blow. “And this is the wolf.”
Aria felt her spine stiffen. Her own wolf bristled under her skin, a silent snarl. She forced herself to meet that grey stare, to not look away.
“Father,” Dae said, a sharp edge entering his voice. “This is Arianna Holstrom, sister to the Prime of the Vanir, and my guest.”
“Guest,” the king repeated, as if tasting a rotten word. His attention flicked to Track, who held the canvas-wrapped Firegard, and to Knuckle with his stack of suitcases. “She appears to be planning an extended stay.”
Ruhn stepped forward, a smile on his face that didn’t reach his shadowed eyes. “Uncle. Always a pleasure.”
King Oren’s head turned slowly. The temperature around them seemed to drop several degrees. “Ruhn. I was not informed you would be gracing us with your presence.”
“Last-minute addition to the entourage,” Ruhn said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thought I’d see how the other half lives. You know, the half that lives in spiky cliff-top prisons. Lovely view, by the way.”
The queen’s lips thinned. A muscle ticked in the king’s jaw.
“The Avallen Court,” King Oren corrected, his voice icy, “is not a prison. It is the heart of our people. A heart that must be protected from… external influences.” His gaze sliced back to Aria. “The Vanir Prime’s sister or not, she is an unmated shifter within our walls. A disruption.”
Dae moved, just a half-step, placing himself more squarely between Aria and his father. “Her safety and honor are under my protection. As my guest, she is afforded every courtesy.”
“Your protection,” the king mused, his eyes now dropping to Dae’s right arm. The new one. His expression hardened further, if that were possible. “A curious development. One we will discuss. Privately.” He finally shifted his weight, turning as if to dismiss them all. “You will be lodged in the Silverspire Wing. Do not wander. The citadel is not as… forgiving… as your wolf den.”
With that, he and the queen turned, their robes sweeping the polished stone, and walked away without a backward glance. The guard split, half following the royals, the other half remaining, a clear escort—or a clear warning.
Aria let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her fingers were cold.
“Well,” Ruhn exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “That went better than last time. He only implied you’re a contaminant, Aria, instead of outright declaring it. Progress.”
Dae’s jaw was clenched so tight Aria could see the muscle jumping. He looked at her, the mask cracking for a single, searing moment. In his eyes was fury, shame, and a promise. He said nothing. He just offered her his left arm, the old one, the familiar one.
She took it, her smaller hand curling around his forearm. The Silverspire Wing sounded like another kind of cage, but with him beside her, she could face its bars.
The citadel’s interior was a breathtaking assault of cold beauty. Halls soared, vaulted ceilings inlaid with shifting mosaics of precious stones that mimicked the night sky. Light came from glowing orbs of captured magic, floating in midair. Everything was carved stone, glimmering metal, and lush, strange tapestries depicting Fae victories. It was magnificent. It was utterly soulless.
Their footsteps echoed ominously in the vast, empty corridors. The guards leading them were silent ghosts in silver armor.
The Silverspire Wing was, as promised, isolated. A bridge of seamless crystal arched over a deep chasm within the mountain itself, connecting to a solitary tower. Their apartments occupied the entire top floor. The rooms were spacious, airy, and decorated in shades of grey and silver. The furnishings were exquisite and looked as if no one had ever sat on them. A wall of arched windows presented a dizzying, panoramic view of the island and the endless sea beyond.
Knuckle and Track began depositing luggage. Track leaned the wrapped sword carefully against a silk-upholstered settee.
“Home sweet home,” Ruhn said, flopping onto the aforementioned settee. It didn’t make a sound. “Cozy.”
Aria wandered to the windows. The world below was a postcard of terrifying grandeur. She felt like a bird in the highest, loneliest cage.
Dae came up behind her, his reflection appearing in the glass beside hers. He didn’t touch her, not with the guards still at the door.
“I need to go,” he said, his voice quiet. “He’ll expect a private audience immediately. It’ll be worse if I delay.”
She nodded, still looking out. “Will you be okay?”
A bitter, humorless smile touched his lips in the reflection. “He can’t kill me. I’m the heir. Everything else is on the table.” He turned from the window. “Ruhn, you’ll stay?”
“Wouldn’t miss the scintillating conversation,” Ruhn called from the couch, eyes closed.
Dae looked at Knuckle and Track. “The door stays shut. No one enters. Anyone tries, you signal Ithan.”
Both wolves gave solemn nods.
His eyes found Aria’s again, held them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He said it like a vow.
Then he was gone, following the waiting guards out the door, which shut with a heavy, final sound.
The silence in the wake of his departure was immense. Aria wrapped her arms around herself.
“Right,” Ruhn said, sitting up. “First things first. Let’s see if the fridge is stocked. I’m starving. And by fridge, I mean whatever magical ice-chest these pretentious bastards use.”
He disappeared through a side archway. Knuckle began methodically checking the other rooms, his large frame making the opulent space seem smaller. Track moved to Aria’s side, her dark eyes scanning the view.
“High ground,” Track said. “One approach. Defensible. Not bad.”
Aria managed a weak smile. “Always thinking like a soldier.”
“Only way to think if you want to keep breathing,” Track replied. She glanced at Aria. “He’s got a spine, your prince. Didn’t back down.”
“He shouldn’t have had to,” Aria murmured, anger finally stirring beneath the anxiety and fatigue.
Track just grunted in agreement.
Ruhn reappeared, holding a crystal decanter filled with a swirling amber liquid and three glasses pinched between his fingers. “Found the good stuff. Medicinal purposes.” He poured a generous measure and handed the first glass to Aria.
She took it, the crystal cool and heavy in her hand. She sipped. The liquid was sweet and fiery, warming a path down to her unsettled stomach.
“So,” Ruhn said, taking a long swallow from his own glass before leaning against the windowsill. “Welcome to Avallen. Where the politics are deadly, the parties are dull, and the family reunions are a form of sanctioned torture.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Try to enjoy your stay.”
Aria didn’t toast back. She just stared into her glass, the amber liquid catching the cold light from the windows. The adrenaline of the docking and the king’s welcome was fading, leaving a hollow, shaky exhaustion in its place. Her body still felt the phantom pitch of the boat. She set the glass down on a side table carved from a single piece of smokey quartz, the click too loud in the quiet room.
“I’m going to change,” she said, her voice small.
Ruhn just nodded, swirling his drink. Track pointed silently towards a hallway. “Second door. Your bags are there.”
Her assigned room was as sterile and beautiful as the main chamber. Her suitcases looked like discarded trash against the delicate silver-grey rug. She bypassed the ornate wardrobe and went straight for the one holding her clothes. She didn’t want silks or Fae finery. She needed the weight of home.
She pulled on soft, worn sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie. The familiar scent of old leather, pine, and her brother Conner’s fading cologne rose from the fabric as she tugged it over her head. It swamped her frame, the sleeves falling past her fingertips. She hugged herself, burying her nose in the cuff for a long moment, and walked back out.
Ruhn had migrated to a low, sinuous couch that looked like a frozen silver wave. He was sprawled on it, one arm flung over his eyes. Track and Knuckle were nowhere to be seen, but Aria knew they’d be close, a silent perimeter within the wing.
Aria sank into a giant, plush armchair upholstered in deep charcoal velvet. It was honestly big enough to hold both her and Daemian if they really wanted. She pulled her knees up to her chest, the bulky hoodie swallowing her. The silence of the spire was absolute, a vacuum that amplified every rustle of fabric, every beat of her heart.
She picked at her bottom lip with her fingers, an old habit from growing up. She peeled a tiny piece of chapped skin off just to have something to do, the faint, sharp pain grounding. Her eyes tracked across the room to where the canvas-wrapped Firegard leaned innocuously against the settee, looking like a forgotten umbrella.
“They don’t know that I have the sword, do they?” Aria whispered. The quiet ate her words.
Ruhn didn’t move his arm from his face. “Nope.”
“And they don’t know about Rigelus,” she asked, the name of the dead Asteri like a sour taste.
“Definitely not.”
She let out a slow breath, the tension in her shoulders unknotting just a fraction. “Okay… that’s… good.”
They lapsed back into silence. They were just waiting for Dae to come back from his father’s study. The minutes stretched, each one longer than the last. The view outside the windows darkened from afternoon gold to a deep, twilight purple. No one came to light the floating orbs; the room sank into shadows.
Knuckle materialized from a darkened archway, a shadow himself. “Perimeter’s clear. No whispers in the walls. Yet.” He looked at Ruhn. “You want me to scout the servant passages?”
“And freak out the help? Pass,” Ruhn said, finally sitting up. His shadows stretched and yawned around him like living things. “We’re guests. For now. Let’s not give the old man an excuse before dinner.”
“What’s dinner going to be like?” Aria asked, resting her chin on her knees.
“A formal condemnation disguised as a seven-course meal,” Ruhn said flatly. “You’ll sit at the far end of a table longer than this wing. Someone will make a toast about purity. Someone else will ask you pointed questions about shifter hunting rituals. Dae will have to carve a roast with his fancy new arm while everyone stares.”
Aria buried her face deeper into Conner’s hoodie. “I feel sick again.”
“Probably will be,” Ruhn agreed. He stood up, restless, and paced to the window. “He’s been gone too long.”
As if summoned by the words, the main door to the wing opened with a soft, decisive click.
Daemian stepped inside. He shut the door behind him with careful, controlled quiet. He was still in Ithan’s borrowed clothes, but they looked different now. They looked like a disguise he’d forgotten to take off. He didn’t move further into the room, just leaned back against the door, his head tilting back to rest on the polished wood.
The light from the dying sun cut across his face, highlighting the tight set of his jaw, the bruised shadows under his eyes. A long, thin scratch, fresh and angry, scored his right cheekbone from temple to jaw.
“Dae,” Aria said, uncurling from the chair.
He opened his eyes. They were hollow, the hazel flat and dull. He looked at her, then at Ruhn, then at the wrapped sword. A laugh escaped him, a dry, brittle sound with no humor in it. He pushed off the door and walked toward the decanter Ruhn had left on the table.
He poured a full glass, his movements precise and terribly slow. He didn’t drink it. He just stared into the liquid.
“Well?” Ruhn prompted, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Dae’s thumb traced the edge of the crystal glass. “The reconstruction of my arm was deemed an acceptable use of Vanir resources,” he began, his tone detached, reciting. “My… attachment… to the wolf-girl is a sentimental lapse, understandable given my trauma and her proximity during my recovery. It is, however, a lapse that will end.”
Aria felt the words like physical blows. She stayed quiet, clutching the sleeves of her hoodie.
“The formal mourning period for Cormac concludes at the next full moon.” Dae took a shallow sip of the liquor, grimacing. “The coronation will be scheduled immediately after. Preparations have begun. My bride, a suitable Fae female from an approved bloodline, has already been selected. Discussions are underway.”
The glass shattered in his hand.
Shards of crystal and amber liquid exploded onto the grey rug. Dae didn’t flinch. He opened his fist, letting the fragments fall. A new, shallow cut welled blood across his palm, mingling with the old scars there.
No one moved.
“He didn’t ask,” Dae said, his voice now raw, stripped of its practiced calm. He was looking at the blood on his hand. “He informed me. The bride. The coronation. The end of you being here.” His eyes lifted, finding Aria’s across the shadowed room. The hollow look was gone, replaced by a rage so deep it chilled the air. “He said he would have you escorted from Avallen himself the morning after I take the crown.”
Ruhn let out a low whistle. “He doesn’t pull punches, does he?”
Dae ignored him, his gaze locked on Aria. “I told him no.”
The two words hung in the silent room. They were simple. They were absolute.
“You told him no,” Ruhn repeated, slowly sitting up straight. “To which part?”
“To all of it.” Dae finally stepped away from the mess of glass and liquor. “The bride. The timeline. The threat.” He walked towards Aria, stopping a few feet from her chair. The cut on his cheek gleamed. “I told him you weren’t leaving. I told him the only person deciding who I marry is me. And I told him that if he touched you, or threatened you, or even looked at you with intent to harm, he would find out exactly what this new arm is capable of.”
Aria’s breath caught. The air vibrated with the truth of it, a dangerous promise.
“What did he say?” Her voice was a thread.
A faint, terrifying smile touched Dae’s mouth. “He said I sounded like my brother.”
From anyone else, it might have been praise. From the King of Avallen, it was the worst condemnation imaginable.
“So what now?” Ruhn asked, rising to his feet. His shadows coiled tightly around his legs. “Because that sounds like a declaration of war, cousin. In this castle, that’s not a metaphor.”
Dae finally looked away from Aria, his shoulders squaring. “Now,” he said, the prince’s mask firmly back in place, cold and resolved, “we get ready for dinner.”
“Now,” he said, the prince’s mask firmly back in place, cold and resolved, “we get ready for dinner.”
Aria stared at him. The blood on his palm was drying to a rusty brown. “Dinner,” she repeated, flat.
“It’s a performance.” Dae’s voice was low, practical. He finally looked at his bleeding hand, flexed it. The new skin knitted the shallow cut together before their eyes. A grotesque, elegant magic. “We don’t show up, we look weak. We show up afraid, we look beaten. We show up exactly as they expect—a shifter in borrowed clothes, a rebellious prince in disgrace—and they’ve already won without lifting a fork.”
He crossed the room, stepping around the shattered crystal. He stopped before her chair, his large frame blocking the twilight view. He crouched down so they were eye-level. Up close, she could see the fine tension in every muscle of his face, the lingering storm in his hazel eyes.
“Open the last suitcase,” he said, his gaze dropping to her baggy hoodie. “The one with the gowns. Pick the one that feels like armor.”
Aria swallowed. The idea of putting on something beautiful in this horrible place felt like a betrayal. “Dae…”
“Aria.” His hand, the one that had just healed, came to rest on her knee over the soft sweatpants. His touch was warm, anchoring. “I need you to walk into that room and make them forget you’re a wolf. I need you to make them see a princess. Can you do that?”
It wasn’t a command. It was a plea, wrapped in strategy. She saw it then—the plan forming behind his eyes. If they couldn’t attack him directly for his defiance, they would chip away at her. They would make her seem small, feral, unworthy. Her appearance was the first line of battle.
She inhaled, the scent of home on her hoodie filling her lungs one last time. She let it out, and with it, some of the fear. She nodded.
“Good.” He stood, his joints cracking. He looked at Ruhn. “You have something that isn’t shadows and a bad attitude?”
Ruhn gestured to a small bag by the door. “Packed my Sunday best. Which, for the record, is Monday-through-Friday worst for these people, but it’ll have to do.”
Two hours later, a heavy, ornamented knock sounded on the wing’s main door. A herald’s voice, toneless and crisp, filtered through the thick wood. “Their Royal Majesties request the pleasure of your company in the Starfall Hall.”
Knuckle, now wearing a crisp black suit that strained across his shoulders, looked at Track. She gave a sharp nod, her own dark gown simple and severe, a blade in cloth form. Ruhn stood by the window, adjusting the cuffs of a black jacket embroidered with faint, swirling silver thread. He’d cleaned up, the shadows reined in, his expression one of bored anticipation.
Dae stood by the unlit fireplace, dressed in Fae formalwear. It was a deep navy jacket of severe cut, silver fastenings gleaming like frozen tears. It fit him perfectly, reclaiming his height and lineage, erasing the boy in the pack sweatshirt. He was every inch the Avallen Crown Prince, beautiful and remote. His hands were clasped behind his back, his profile to the room, waiting.
The door to Aria’s bedroom opened.
The soft rustle of heavy fabric was the only sound. Dae turned.
He stopped breathing.
He had never seen Aria in anything other than jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers. He’d never attended any pack events in Lunathion. The female who walked into the silvery light of the sitting room was a stranger, and yet his every instinct screamed mine.
The gown was a deep, punishing viridian green, the color of a forest at midnight. The silk was heavy, falling from a bodice that clung to her curves before sweeping out in a graceful, floor-length skirt. A daring slit climbed one thigh. The neckline plunged in a sharp V, showcasing the soft swell of her breasts, held secure by clever, hidden architecture.
Black platform heels added inches to her height, making her stance confident, steady. Silver jewelry gleamed at her throat and wrists—delicate, intricate chains that caught the light without screaming for it. Her light brown hair was half up, half down in a cascade of soft curls. Woven through the updo were tiny pins of silver and crystal shaped like frost-tipped flowers, sparkling like captive stars.
Her makeup was perfection in subtle shades, enhancing, not masking. Eyeliner and mascara meticulously framed her eyes, drawing all attention there. To her eyes. They were the green of the gown, but alive, luminous, and around the pupils burned that distinct, wolfish ring of amber.
She was a vision of lethal elegance. Not a girl playing dress-up. A queen from a different, wilder court.
Dae just stared. His cold, princely mask dissolved, shattered by pure, unguarded wonder. A slow smile spread across his face, erasing the exhaustion, the rage, the scratch on his cheek. It was a smile of stunning joy, of fierce pride, so wide and genuine it transformed him completely.
Ruhn, glancing over from the window, did a double-take. He’d never seen that smile in his life. Not even close.
Dae didn’t move for three long heartbeats. Then he crossed the room to her. He didn’t touch her dress, her hair. He simply took her left hand, his new right hand coming up to cradle hers. He bowed his head, pressing his lips to her knuckles. His eyes never left hers.
When he straightened, the smile remained, a private, radiant thing just for her. “Arianna Holstrom,” he said, his voice thick.
She squeezed his fingers, her own nerves quieting under the certainty in his gaze. “Ready for the performance?”
“No,” he admitted softly, reverently. “I just want to look at you.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, his posture shifting into one of formal escort. The proud prince returned, but his expression was now alight with a secret, devastating truth. This was his mate. Unknown to his parents. Unacceptable to his court. But she was his, and he was hers, and for tonight, that was the only armor they needed.
“Let’s go ruin their appetites,” Ruhn said, falling into step behind them.
Knuckle opened the door. The herald, a pinched-faced Fae in silver livery, waited. His eyes flicked over Aria, a practiced appraisal. For a fraction of a second, his disinterest faltered, replaced by startled appreciation. He covered it with a deeper bow. “This way, Your Highness.”
They followed him out of the Silverspire Wing, across the humming crystal bridge, and into the beating heart of the citadel. The corridors grew wider, busier. Courtiers in glittering attire drifted like exotic fish, their conversations hushing as the procession passed. Whispers trailed in their wake, a susurrus of silk and speculation. Eyes, cold and curious, raked over them, lingering on Aria, on Dae’s healed face, on their linked arms.
Aria kept her head high, her gaze fixed on the middle distance, just as Track had murmured to her. Don’t engage.Look through them. You’re scenery to them, so be a fucking mountain.
The Starfall Hall lived up to its name. The ceiling was a dome of obsidian, in which points of genuine, captured starlight glittered and slowly shifted. The walls were sheer, polished moonstone, reflecting the glow of a thousand floating candle-lamps. A table longer than a city block ran down its center, set with crystal, silver, and plates that looked like spun pearl. It was already half-filled with the Fae elite, a kaleidoscope of jewel-toned silks and calculating smiles.
At the far head, on a raised dais, sat King Oren and Queen Lyra. They were a portrait of icy sovereignty.
Every head turned as they entered. The murmur died completely. The only sound was the whisper of Aria’s gown and the tap of her heels on the flawless jetstone floor.
Dae led her forward, not to the lowly end of the table as Ruhn had predicted, but directly toward the dais. A murmur rippled through the court. He stopped before three empty seats positioned just to the right of the king’s throne. Not at the foot. In the line of sight.
A servant scurried to pull out Aria’s chair. Dae helped her settle, the gesture intimate and deliberate, before taking the seat between her and where his parents sat. Ruhn slid into the chair on Aria’s other side, a dark, amused buffer.
King Oren’s flinty eyes passed over Dae, dismissed Ruhn, and settled on Aria. His expression didn’t change, but the temperature at their end of the table seemed to plummet. He raised a hand.
“The court welcomes my son, Prince Daemian, home.” His voice echoed in the hall, devoid of warmth. “And… his guests. Let the evening commence.”
Servants flowed in with the first course, some concoction of luminous broth and edible flowers. Aria picked up her spoon, her movements careful. The weight of countless stares was a physical pressure.
The female to King Oren’s left, a severe beauty with hair like spun moonlight, leaned forward slightly. Her eyes, a pale lavender, fixed on Aria. “The gown is… unusual,” she said, her voice a melody meant to cut. “Is that a Vanir style?”
Aria took a slow sip of the broth. It tasted like cold perfume. She set the spoon down. “It’s a Lunathion design,” she said, her voice clear and steady in the quiet. “The designer works in the Old Square. She does remarkable things with silk.”
The female blinked, as if surprised to be answered in complete, unaccented sentences. “How… commercial.”
“Queen Lyra,” Dae interjected, his tone conversational but edged, “Arianna’s brother, the Vanir Prime, is a close ally of the Asteri’s own chosen emissaries. Bryce Quinlan and her mate are frequent guests in their home. Modern alliances often thrive beyond traditional… markets.”
He’d name-dropped the most powerful beings in Midgard with a casual flick of his words. The queen’s lips tightened. She leaned back.
The meal dragged. Each course was a masterpiece of minimal nutrition. Aria navigated the alien cutlery, her pack-trained manners holding firm. She spoke only when spoken to, her answers short, polite, and revealing nothing. Dae fielded the more pointed barbs, his replies growing colder and more clipped as the wine flowed.
A lord with emerald-encrusted fingers waved a hand toward Dae’s arm. “That’s a fascinating piece of fleshcraft, Your Highness. Vanir magic is so… visceral. Does it function identically to the original?”
Dae turned his right hand over on the tablecloth, studying it. He flexed the fingers, then made a fist. The knuckles were perfect. “It’s stronger,” he said simply. Then he looked up, meeting the lord’s gaze. “Would you like a demonstration of its grip?”
A faint, nervous titter skittered down the table. The lord paled and busied himself with his wine.
King Oren had been silently observing, a predator assessing a changed dynamic. As a dessert of frozen sapphire berries was cleared, he finally addressed Aria directly. His voice filled the hollow space between them. “Miss Holstrom. Your presence here is a novelty. What do you make of Avallen?”
All chatter ceased. This was the real test.
Aria dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin, buying a second. She felt Dae go rigid beside her. She looked at the king, meeting those grey, pitiless eyes.
“It’s very beautiful,” she said, her tone measured. “The craftsmanship is unparalleled. The view from the Silverspire Wing is breathtaking.” She paused, letting the expected flattery hang. Then she added, her green-and-amber eyes holding his, “It must be very… quiet… at night. I’m used to the sound of the pack. The breathing, the shifting. The life.”
The implication was as sharp as a knife: Your beautiful cage is silent and empty.
A muscle feathered in King Oren’s temple. He leaned back in his throne, steepling his fingers. “Life takes many forms,” he said. “Some are… noisier than others. Less disciplined.”
Before Dae could erupt, a new voice cut through from further down the table. “Discipline is relative, Your Majesty.”
Everyone turned. A Fae male with hair the color of dried blood and eyes like chips of topaz stood slowly from his seat. He was young, perhaps a few years older than Dae, dressed in dark grey instead of the court’s riotous colors. A single, slim dagger was belted at his hip—a shocking breach of etiquette. The guards along the walls stirred but did not move.
King Oren’s gaze was glacial. “Lord Kaelen. You have an observation?”
“An opinion.” Kaelen’s smile was all teeth. He looked directly at Dae, ignoring Aria completely. “A prince who gains a new limb from a shifter’s sacrifice and then parades her here like a trophy isn’t displaying discipline. He’s displaying a profound, and rather pathetic, sentimental debt. It reeks of weakness.” His topaz eyes flicked to Aria, dismissive. “And the wolf reeks of… whatever damp forests they kennel in.”
The insult hung, brutal and deliberate. A challenge not just to Dae, but to everything she was.
Dae didn’t stand up. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply turned his head toward Kaelen, his movements slow, predatory. The air around their section of the table grew heavy, charged.
“You question my strength, Kaelen?” Dae’s voice was a soft, deadly ripple in the silence.
“I question your judgment.” Kaelen took a leisurely sip of his wine. “Cormac would have known what to do with such a… liability.”
The mention of his dead brother was the final lock turning. Dae’s control snapped.
He moved.
He didn’t go for Kaelen. In one fluid motion, he picked up his own heavy, pearl-handled dinner knife. With a flick of his wrist—his new wrist—he sent it flying down the length of the table.
It wasn’t thrown at Kaelen. It shot past him, a silver streak, and embedded itself with a solid thunk into the ornate wooden paneling of the far wall, precisely between two stunned courtiers. It vibrated, humming.
Every person at the table flinched. Aria jumped in her seat. Ruhn let out a low, appreciative curse.
Dae rose to his feet, his chair scraping back violently. He placed both hands flat on the table, leaning forward. His focus was absolute, a laser on Kaelen, who had gone very still.
“My brother is dead,” Dae said, each word a chip of ice. “I am your prince. The next time you wish to question my judgment, you will do so while looking at this.” He lifted his right hand, the miraculous one, and slowly clenched it into a fist before the entire court. “And you will wonder if I’m about to remake your face with it.”
The silence was absolute, shocked.
King Oren finally stirred. “Daemian.” The name was a whip-crack. “You forget yourself.”
Dae turned his head, just his head, toward his father. The fury in his eyes was a living thing. “No, Father,” he said, his voice carrying in the petrified hall. “For the first time, I remember exactly who I am.”
He straightened. He looked at Aria, his expression shifting, a silent question. Stay or go?
Aria stood up. Her viridian gown pooled around her. She didn’t look at the king, at the queen, at the gaping court. She looked only at Dae, and gave a single, slight nod.
Without another word, he offered her his arm. She took it, her fingers steady on the hard muscle beneath his jacket. Together, they turned their backs on the Starfall Hall, on the stunned silence, on the king’s furious gaze.
They walked out, Ruhn, Knuckle, and Track falling in behind them, a phalanx of unwavering loyalty. No one stopped them. No one dared.
The echoing tap of Aria’s black heels on the jetstone floor was the only sound, a defiant tattoo that faded as they left the glittering, hateful light behind.