Halloween dawned gray and damp.
Weather, at least, had the decency to match Rowan’s mood.
She woke early, nerves jangling like coins in a dryer. The apartment felt too small for all the restless energy coiled under her skin.
She tried to eat the arroz con pollo Zia had brought. Her stomach rebelled after three bites. She settled for toast, dry, and sips of tea.
She showered. Dressed. Checked her bag three times.
The bracelet on her right wrist hummed faintly, the hidden band on her left a steady, subtle pressure.
At seven-thirty, Harper texted.
HARPER: ready?
ROWAN: define “ready”
HARPER: wearing pants?
ROWAN: yes
HARPER: emotionally destroyed but standing upright?
ROWAN: also yes
HARPER: then ur ready
ROWAN: logic is flawed but i’ll allow it
A minute later, a second text.
HARPER: we’re outside. open up, dragon
Rowan’s throat closed.
She opened the door.
Harper stood there, arms full of Tupperware and a huge bag of chips. Zia had a thermos in each hand. Both of them looked like they’d been crying periodically and trying to cover it with eyeliner.
“You look…” Harper squinted at Rowan. “…like a Hot Topic model trying to go to a job interview.”
“I’ll take it,” Rowan said.
Harper set the food on the table and launched herself forward, hugging Rowan hard enough to bruise. Zia followed, wrapping around both of them. For a moment, they were just a tangle of limbs and shared breath and damp cheeks.
“I’m okay,” Rowan lied into Harper’s shoulder.
“Lies,” Harper said, voice thick. “Tell more.”
“I’m…with you,” Rowan said. “For now. That’s…enough.”
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said this morning,” Zia muttered into the back of Rowan’s head.
They pulled back eventually, reluctantly.
Harper bustled like a mother hen on steroids, pulling out containers of cut fruit (“from the human grocery store, not a cursed orchard”), sandwiches, brownies. Zia poured tea from one thermos, coffee from the other.
“You’re trying to bribe me into staying,” Rowan said, accepting a mug.
“Yes,” Harper said. “But also, you’re not stepping into a fae ritual on an empty stomach. That’s how they get you. Hunger. Next thing you know, you’re eating their food, and then *bam,* indentured interdimensional servitude.”
“I have fallen for less elaborate scams,” Rowan admitted.
They ate.
Or pretended to.
Harper told an absolutely terrible story about a customer who’d tried to return a book because “the ending was unsatisfying” and demanded “emotional compensation.”
Zia showed them a TikTok of a witch complaining about pumpkin spice appropriation.
They avoided the elephant.
At 7:50, the air in the apartment changed.
It went denser, as if the molecules decided to huddle closer together.
Rowan’s bracelet warmed.
She set her mug down carefully.
“He’s here,” she said.
Harper made a face. “Of course he is. On time. Like a responsible abductor.”
“Don’t antagonize him *yet,*” Zia murmured.
Caelan didn’t step out of the ceiling this time.
He knocked.
Three precise taps on the door.
Rowan’s chest squeezed.
Harper opened it before Rowan could move.
“You’re early,” Harper said, folding her arms. “Points deducted.”
“It’s eight,” Caelan said mildly. “As agreed.”
“We live on Rowan Standard Time here,” Harper said. “Which runs five minutes late and powered by spite.”
“Spite is a potent fuel,” Caelan said gravely. His gaze slid past her. Landed on Rowan.
She’d thought she’d grown used to that feeling—the way his attention wrapped around her like a physical thing, cool and sharp and…there. She hadn’t.
He wore mortal clothes again—dark jeans, a black button-down, a charcoal coat unbuttoned. It made him look less like a prince and more like a very well-dressed man on his way to a funeral.
Appropriate.
“You look…” He paused, searching for a word. “…ready,” he settled on.
“Your assessment is flawed,” Rowan said. “But appreciated.”
He glanced at Harper and Zia. “You two—”
“Are coming,” Harper said.
Caelan’s brows rose. “To the lake, yes,” he said. “No farther.”
“Obviously,” Zia said. “We don’t have a death wish. We just have…boundary issues.”
He inclined his head. “Very well.”
He looked back at Rowan. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “You can still say no.”
“No, she can’t,” Harper snapped. “Not unless you’ve figured out a way to untangle your father’s murder contract in the last twelve hours.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “Semantics aside,” he said, “she has a choice in *how* this happens. I will not drag her.”
Rowan took a breath.
Her heart thudded.
“I’m sure,” she said. “About this part.”
He nodded slowly, something like respect in his eyes. “Then we go,” he said.
She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder. Tucked Zia’s vial of lake water into her pocket. Touched the bracelet on her right wrist, feeling the hum of its strands. Pressed her thumb briefly to the invisible band on her left.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
***
They walked.
Down the stairs, the hallway lights flickering. Out into the chill evening, the sky a deepening purple-gray. The street teemed with small witches and pirates, superheroes and vampires, parents and older siblings trailing behind with cameras and tote bags.
It felt surreal, moving through this ordinary chaos with apocalypse humming under Rowan’s skin.
Harper flanked her on the right, Zia on the left. Caelan walked half a step behind, like a bodyguard. Or a shadow.
“How are we doing this?” Harper asked him, voice low. “You just…snap your fingers and we fall through like a trapdoor? Because I have notes.”
“No snapping,” Caelan said. “The seam is…a place, not a spell. We’ll…step through.”
“Like a door,” Rowan said.
“Yes,” he said. “A difficult one.”
Zia glanced at him. “You’re certain Aisling’s distraction won’t blow us all sideways,” she asked. “Because I know her type. She likes collateral damage.”
“I’ve spoken with her,” Caelan said. “We have…an understanding.”
“Great,” Harper muttered. “The two most dramatic people I’ve ever met partially coordinating my best friend’s kidnapping. What could go wrong.”
They left the brighter streets behind, turning onto the path that led toward the lake.
The trees here were mostly bare, branches reaching overhead like interlaced fingers. Leaves carpeted the ground in layers, some crisp, some already turning to slick mulch.
As they walked, the world…quieted.
The shrieks of children faded. The hum of cars thinned. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Rowan’s skin prickled.
The seam was waking up.
“You can still turn around,” Caelan said quietly, so only she could hear. “At any point until we…cross fully.”
She snorted. “You’re going to keep saying that until I fall into your world, aren’t you.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Annoying,” she muttered.
“Consistent,” he said.
The path opened onto the small beach.
The lake lay before them, dark and almost perfectly still. It reflected the dim sky in a way that made it look like a hole punched in the world.
Rowan’s bracelet hummed.
Zia set her bag down and immediately began scattering salt in a half-circle behind them, muttering under her breath. Harper picked up a baseball bat wrapped in cloth—no metal—and rested it on her shoulder, eyes scanning the shadows.
“Your girlfriends are very prepared,” Caelan observed quietly to Rowan.
“They’re very anxious,” Rowan said. “Preparation is how they cope.”
“They’re also scary,” he said. “In a…good way.”
“Agree,” she said.
He stepped closer to the water’s edge.
Rowan followed until the damp sand sucked at the edges of her sneakers.
The last time she’d stood here, she’d seen another world through the skin of this one. It had nearly swallowed her whole.
Now, she saw…more.
Layers. Reflections. Faint glimmers.
On the surface: their world. Bare trees. A lone fisherman on the opposite bank, line slack in the water. The faint twinkle of town lights beyond.
Beneath: deeper colors. Red leaves that never fully fell. A suggestion of stone towers in the distance. Lights that moved like will‑o‑wisps.
She swallowed.
“You okay?” Caelan asked.
“Define,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Breathe,” he murmured.
She did.
In. Out.
The hum under her skin rose, matching the lake’s shiver.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now,” he said, “I knock.”
He lifted his left hand, palm out toward the water. The hidden band on her wrist warmed, throbbing once in time with his motion.
He said something in a language that sounded like wind sliding through dry leaves. The air in front of his palm rippled.
The lake shuddered.
A low, deep sound rolled up from its depths. Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Something…older.
“Is that—” Harper began behind them.
“Lake spirit,” Zia said tersely. “Behave.”
Rowan felt…watched.
Not just by the lake. By something else, pressing at the edges of the seam. Curious. Hungry.
“Remember,” Caelan said quietly, without looking away from the water. “You choose how far you go. No one—including me—pushes.”
She nodded, throat dry.
He lowered his hand.
The lake’s surface…changed.
It didn’t split dramatically. No Moses‑like parting. It…thinned. The reflection of the sky darkened, then lightened. The line where water met shore blurred, like someone had taken a wet brush to the world.
Rowan’s breath caught.
“There,” Caelan said softly. “The door.”
She squinted.
At first, she saw nothing but the usual—ripples, faint moon reflection. Then…a line.
Not quite vertical. Not quite horizontal. A hairline crack in the air above the water, about ten feet out. It glowed faintly, an opalescent shimmer, like oil on the surface.
“You want me to…swim to that,” Rowan said incredulously.
“No,” Caelan said. “That’s our…anchor on this side. The actual crossing will be…closer.”
He stepped forward into the shallows until the water lapped at his boots. He held out his right hand.
“Come,” he said.
Harper made a noise like a strangled cat. “I hate this,” she muttered.
Zia’s salt line flared, brightening briefly.
Rowan’s heart hammered against her ribs hard enough to hurt.
She took a step.
The water was cold when it soaked through her sneakers. It bit into her ankles like teeth.
Caelan’s hand remained steady.
She took it.
Warmth. A jolt like static. The hum in her bracelet spiked.
He squeezed, once. “On three,” he said quietly. “We step. We don’t look back. We don’t hesitate.”
“What happens if I hesitate,” she asked.
“The seam might…snap,” he said.
“Great,” she said faintly. “No pressure.”
He turned his head slightly. “Harper. Zia.”
They straightened.
“If something comes through while we’re between,” Caelan said, “do not engage. Do not try to follow. Get away from the water. Stay behind the salt. Use iron if you must. Wait for…news.”
“What kind of news,” Harper demanded.
“If she pulls,” Zia said quietly, hand pressed to the coin in her pocket. “We’ll know.”
Harper swallowed hard. “Fine,” she said. “But for the record, I hate your plan.”
“Duly noted,” Caelan said.
He looked at Rowan.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Do it anyway.”
His mouth curved, small and fierce. “One,” he said.
The hum in her body rose.
“Two.”
The lake darkened.
“Three.”
They stepped.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t nothing, either.
For a moment, it felt like walking into a slightly deeper patch of water. Cold up to her shins. Sand sucking at her soles.
Then the world…tilted.
Sound dropped away—no wind, no distant traffic, no rustle of leaves. Sight narrowed to a tunnel, with only Caelan’s hand at the center, warm and solid.
The water wasn’t water.
It was…between.
Not wet. Not dry. Not air. Not anything she’d ever experienced.
It slid over her skin like silk, prickling everywhere it touched. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t breathe—not because something was blocking her lungs, but because breathing didn’t make sense here.
“Don’t let go,” Caelan’s voice said, from somewhere very far away and right next to her ear.
She clung.
The bracelet on her right wrist burned cold, like holding an ice cube too long. The band on her left seared hot.
Something brushed against her leg.
Not Caelan.
Cold. Slick. Curious.
She flinched.
“Eyes on me,” Caelan commanded.
She forced her gaze up.
His face swam into focus, oddly clear in the blur. His hair floated slightly, as if in water that wasn’t water. His eyes glowed, silver bright.
“Almost there,” he said.
Time unraveled.
It might have been seconds. It might have been hours.
Her lungs ached. Her skin crawled. The hum in her blood built to a teeth‑grinding pitch.
Then—
They broke through.
It felt like being yanked out of a too-tight sweater.
The pressure vanished.
Air rushed into her lungs, thick and sharp and smelling of smoke and crisp leaves and something sweet like overripe fruit. She stumbled, knees buckling.
Caelan’s arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright.
They stood on solid ground.
No water. No sand.
Rowan blinked, vision swimming.
The world snapped into focus.
She was standing on a shore.
But not the one she’d left.
The lake stretched out in front of her, but it was wider, blacker, ringed with trees that loomed impossibly tall. The sky above was a deep, endless twilight, streaked with colors no sunset had any business wearing—violet, copper, bruised gold. No stars. No moon. Just a diffuse, eerie glow.
The trees weren’t quite like any she knew. Their trunks twisted, bark a deep reddish brown, leaves a riot of colors—crimson, amber, dark green, all at once. Some glowed faintly from within, as if lit by hidden embers.
The air hummed.
Not the faint background hum of her magic. A thicker, heavier vibration. Like standing next to a giant cat purring.
Her body…shook.
Not from cold. From too much.
Magic pressed against her skin, curious and insistent. It slid under her fingernails, into her hair, across her tongue. It tasted of bittersweet things—coffee grounds, burnt sugar, apples going soft in the grass.
She sucked in a shaky breath.
“Welcome,” Caelan said softly, still holding her steady. “To the Autumn Court.”
She laughed.
It came out high and a little hysterical.
“Subtle,” she said.
He smiled, but his eyes were watchful. “Can you stand?” he asked.
She nodded, unclenching fingers she hadn’t realized she’d dug into his coat.
He eased his arm away, staying close enough to catch her if she toppled.
Her knees held.
Barely.
She took a few steps, sneakers sinking into springy moss instead of sand.
She turned in a slow circle.
The lake behind them curved gently, its far shore lined with trees that seemed to lean inward, their branches knitting into a canopy. Fireflies—or something like them—drifted above the water, leaving faint trails of light.
Between the trunks, she glimpsed…structures.
Not the full glory yet. Just hints. Stone glinting in the distance. Juts of metal. Flickers of lanterns.
“Is this…your front yard?” she asked, voice thin.
“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “We’re at the edge of the wildwood. The…outer ring.”
“What, exactly, stops something from just…dragging me back into that seam when my back is turned?” she asked.
He lifted his hand.
Fine silver threads glowed for a heartbeat, stretching from the place they’d emerged to somewhere over the trees.
“My tie,” he said. “And others.”
As if cued, something rustled behind them.
Rowan spun.
A figure stepped out from between two tree trunks.
Tall. Lean. Hair like liquid gold, braided back. Eyes a green so bright they almost glowed. Clothes a riot of textures—leather, silk, fur. A crown of thin, twisted branches sat crooked on their head.
Not a man.
Not a woman.
Something in between. Something beyond.
They grinned, wide and sharp.
“You made it,” Aisling said.
Rowan’s heart did something complicated.
“You’re early,” Caelan said to Aisling, voice flat.
“You’re late,” Aisling said cheerfully. “By my standards. Don’t worry, I handled the welcoming committee.”
“What did you do,” Caelan asked warily.
Aisling waved a hand. “Sent them chasing phantoms in the north field,” she said. “They’ll be very annoyed when they realize the ‘terrible breach in the wards’ was just three of my cousins lighting sheep shit on fire.”
Caelan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You lit sheep shit on fire,” he repeated.
“I delegated,” Aisling said. “Leadership.”
Rowan snorted despite herself.
Aisling’s gaze slid to her.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met fully, no shelves between them, no dream fog.
It was like standing in front of a mirror that lied.
Same height, roughly. Similar build. Their faces weren’t identical, but the bones under the skin…echoed each other. The slope of the nose. The shape of the jaw. The way their eyebrows arched when skeptical.
Aisling took a step closer, looking her up and down with frank curiosity.
“You’re…less fragile than I expected,” she said. “Mortality suits you.”
“You’re…less terrifying,” Rowan said.
Aisling’s grin widened. “Give me time,” she said.
Caelan cleared his throat. “We don’t have much,” he said. “Time. Your…diversion won’t last long.”
Aisling rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, urgency, doom, et cetera,” she said. “Come on, then. Let’s get her into the murder palace before anyone notices.”
Rowan’s lips twitched. “Told you,” she murmured to Caelan.
He sighed.
“Stay close,” he said to Rowan. “The paths…shift.”
“You say that like it’s normal,” she muttered.
“It is,” Aisling said. “Here.”
They led her into the trees.
The wildwood swallowed them.
The light changed almost immediately.
It wasn’t darker, precisely. Just…denser. The canopy overhead filtered the twilight into strange patterns—patches of copper, streaks of green. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic.
The path underfoot wasn’t a path in the human sense. It wound, yes, but not in ways that made sense. Sometimes it doubled back on itself. Sometimes it seemed to turn without moving. Trees that had been on her right were suddenly on her left.
“How…?” she began.
“Don’t try to track it,” Caelan said quietly. “You’ll give yourself a headache.”
“So many things give me a headache here,” she muttered.
As they walked, the forest…watched.
She felt eyes on her.
Some she saw—birds with too-bright eyes perched high in the branches. Squirrels with fur that shimmered like oil. Once, a stag stepped out onto the path ahead of them, antlers draped with moss. It regarded Rowan with dark, unblinking eyes, then dipped its head slightly before vanishing between the trees.
Many more she didn’t see. Just…felt. Weight on the back of her neck. The way the hairs on her arms lifted.
“They know I’m here,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” Caelan said. “Most of them don’t care. A few are…making bets.”
“On what,” she asked warily.
“Whether you’ll last the week,” Aisling said cheerfully. “Or burn us all to the ground on day three.”
“Charming,” Rowan said.
“Don’t worry,” Aisling added. “My money’s on ‘last the week, burn us down later.’”
“That’s oddly comforting,” Rowan said.
They walked longer than made sense.
Her internal clock, already scrambled by the crossing, gave up. The light in the trees never changed. No sun moved across the sky. Time here wasn’t marked by shadows.
Her legs ached. The hum in her body settled into a low, constant throb, like the ache after a long run.
Just when she thought she might actually topple, the trees thinned.
They stepped out onto a rise.
And there it was.
The Autumn Palace.
It sprawled across the valley below like a wound—and a jewel.
Towers of red stone rose toward the twilight, their surfaces veined with gold that caught the light in restless patterns. Bridges arched between them, some stone, some something else, too delicate-looking to hold weight. Balconies jutted, hung with banners in deep green and russet.
The main bulk of the palace hugged a wide hill, its lower levels carved directly into the rock. Windows flickered with light—warm gold, cold white, occasional flares of something stranger. Smoke curled from chimneys, smelling of wood and spices and other things she couldn’t name.
Around it, the Court’s lands spread in a patchwork—fields of tall, waving grain the color of dark honey; orchards heavy with fruit that glowed faintly; a cluster of smaller buildings that might be houses. People—fae—moved along paths and across courtyards, tiny from this distance, their colors bright against the earth.
Closer to the palace, a vast open space—the Hunt Yard, she guessed—waited. Its packed earth was scarred with tracks—hoofprints, claw marks, grooves from wheels.
It was…beautiful.
In a terrible way.
Her breath caught.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” she said.
“We rarely do,” Caelan murmured.
A horn sounded in the distance. Not loud. Not near. A low, echoing note that made the hair on Rowan’s arms stand up.
“Shit,” Aisling said. “They’ve noticed.”
“How far,” Caelan asked.
“Not far enough,” Aisling said. “They’re calling for you. For her. For the show.”
“We’re not going to the throne hall yet,” Caelan said. “I want her in her rooms first.”
“You think they’ll let you delay the spectacle,” Aisling said.
“They’ll try to drag me,” Caelan said. “They’ll fail.”
Aisling grinned. “I’ll bring popcorn.”
He shot her a look.
“What,” she said. “I like theater.”
The horn sounded again. Closer.
Rowan’s stomach clenched. “That’s…for me,” she said.
“Yes,” Caelan said. “Ignore it.”
“You can’t just ignore a giant symbolic bugle,” she said.
“Watch me,” he said.
They descended the slope.
As they moved closer, the scale of the palace became…overwhelming.
The walls were higher than any human building she’d stood under without an elevator. The stone wasn’t uniform; veins of some greenish metal ran through it, pulsing faintly. Vines crawled up the sides, leaves dark and glossy, flowers deep red and gold.
They approached a side gate rather than the grand front entrance. It was smaller, less ostentatious—arched, with a heavy wooden door bound in the same strange green metal.
Two guards flanked it.
They wore armor that looked somewhere between medieval and alien—layers of leather and that same metal, etched with patterns that shifted if she looked at them too long. Their eyes, when they met hers, were unreadable.
“Prince,” one said, bowing.
“Thorn,” the other nodded to Aisling.
“Open it,” Caelan said.
“The King—” the first began.
“Is dying,” Caelan cut in. “And he can wait five minutes to make his speech. Open. The. Door.”
The guard swallowed.
The door swung inward.
They stepped through into a corridor lit by hovering globes of warm light. The air inside the palace was cooler, carrying a complicated scent—stone, smoke, something floral, something metallic.
Sound echoed oddly here. Rowan heard distant footsteps, laughter, a snatch of music, all distorted by the acoustics.
“Stay close,” Caelan said unnecessarily.
They moved quickly.
Down corridors tiled in intricate wooden mosaics. Up a wide staircase whose banister writhed with carved vines that moved when she wasn’t looking directly at them. Past open doorways that gave her glimpses of other spaces—a kitchen bustling with movement and steam, a library with shelves that stretched into shadow, a courtyard where leaves swirled in a wind that didn’t touch her.
Fae stared as they passed.
Some openly. Some sidelong. Some not at all, which was almost worse.
Whisper flitted along the ceiling, ember eyes bright.
“Whisper, no,” Caelan muttered.
Whisper drifted closer anyway, smile full of thorns. “The story steps over the threshold,” it whispered, looking at Rowan. “How delicious.”
“If you try to tangle her now,” Caelan said warningly, “I will cut you out of the roots myself.”
Whisper tilted its head. “Such devotion,” it purred. “Very unbecoming of a prince.”
“I’ll send the seers your way if you don’t leave,” Caelan said.
Whisper made a face. “They always smell of onions,” it complained. It winked at Rowan. “Later, little hinge,” it whispered.
She shivered.
“Friendly,” she muttered.
“Do not make bargains with that one,” Caelan said. “Ever. For anything.”
“Noted,” she said.
They reached another set of doors. These were smaller, carved with an abstract pattern that looked like overlapping leaves. Caelan pushed one open.
“Here,” he said. “Your rooms.”
Rowan stepped inside.
It was not a dungeon.
It was…a suite.
A small sitting room opened off the doorway, its floor polished wood, its walls hung with tapestries in deep reds and golds. A low couch sat against one wall, piled with cushions. A table stood in the center, already set with a carafe of water, a bowl of fruit, a plate of…something that looked like bread and smelled like spices.
Beyond, a doorway led to a bedroom with a large, canopied bed draped in gauzy curtains. A wardrobe. A small desk. Another door, half‑open, revealed a washroom—basin, pitcher, something that might be a shower if she squinted.
It looked…comfortable.
Too comfortable.
“This is a prison,” she said.
“Yes,” Caelan said calmly. “But it will be a relatively pleasant one.”
She shot him a look.
“You can leave,” he clarified. “Within the palace. Within certain grounds. With me. For now. But there are places you shouldn’t go yet. And people you shouldn’t see alone.”
“Like your father,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“And Maerlyn,” Aisling added cheerfully, leaning in the doorway. “And the Hounds. And the Mire Queen. And—”
“We get it,” Caelan said.
Rowan walked to the window.
It was narrow but tall, set deep into the stone. Through it, she saw a courtyard below—cobblestones, a fountain shaped like a stag, a few fae crossing, their clothes bright streaks.
Above, the sky burned in those strange, saturated colors, clouds sliding slow and heavy.
She pressed her palm to the stone.
It pulsed faintly under her fingers.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed.
Okay, she thought. Okay.
She’d done it.
She was here.
“Sit,” Caelan said behind her. “Drink. Eat something. The King will try to drag me to the throne hall in about—” he glanced at some invisible internal clock “—ten minutes. I’d like you not to faint when he sees you.”
“I’m not going,” she said automatically.
“You are,” he said. “Eventually. Today. He will make a show of you whether we like it or not. Better you walk in on your own feet than be hauled.”
“I hate your logic,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
Aisling slipped inside and plucked a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table. It looked like an apple, but the skin was deep purple.
“Don’t,” Caelan snapped.
Aisling took a bite.
Rowan tensed.
Aisling chewed, eyes on Rowan. “Trust me,” she said, swallowing. “If we wanted to drug you, we’d do it more subtly than that.”
“I’m not eating anything that glows,” Rowan said. “Baseline rule.”
“This doesn’t glow,” Aisling said. “It just shimmers.”
“Hard no,” Rowan said.
Caelan’s mouth twitched. “Good instincts,” he said.
“This is going to be exhausting,” Rowan muttered.
He stepped closer.
His hand hovered over her shoulder, not quite touching. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed,” he said softly. “You’re not allowed to show it in front of them.”
She looked up at him. “You want me to…perform,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “A little.”
“I’m not an actress,” she said.
“You’ve been pretending your whole life,” he said gently. “Pretending you’re not seeing glamours, that iron just ‘doesn’t agree’ with you, that your dreams are just dreams. This is…no different. Just a different stage.”
She hated that he was right.
“What do you need me to do,” she asked, resigned.
“Stand,” he said. “Look them in the eye. Don’t flinch when my father tries to rattle you. Don’t smile at Maerlyn. Don’t accept anything anyone offers you except from my hands or Aisling’s.”
“Aisling’s?” Rowan said, surprised.
“Yes,” Aisling said. “I may want to break the system, but I’d prefer to do it with you alive.”
“That’s generally my preference too,” Rowan said.
The horn sounded again, closer now, echoing through the stone.
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “Showtime,” he muttered.
He looked at Rowan.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Do it anyway.”
He smiled, brief and sharp.
He held out his hand.
She took it.
They walked out into the hall.
The Palace watched.
The Court waited.
And somewhere, in the shadows beneath the roots of the wildwood, something old and patient smiled.
---