The walk to the throne hall felt longer than it was.
They moved through corridors that seemed to twist on themselves, up another broad staircase, along a gallery lined with tall windows. Below, Rowan glimpsed courtyards, gardens, a glimpse of the Hunt Yard where figures on horseback moved restlessly, their silhouettes sharp against the earth.
Voices echoed faintly—laughter, shrieks, the low murmur of conversations. The Palace thrummed with anticipation, like a theater audience just before the curtain rose.
Rowan’s heart pounded in her throat.
Her palm was slick in Caelan’s.
He didn’t let go.
At the end of the gallery stood a pair of massive doors.
Unlike the side doors, these were…spectacular.
Carved from some dark, reddish wood, inlaid with veins of gold and that greenish metal, they depicted scenes from Autumn history—hunts, feasts, battles, bargains. Rowan’s eyes snagged on one panel: a human woman kneeling in a forest, hands outstretched, while a shadowy figure extended a glowing object toward her.
Her stomach twisted.
“Don’t look too closely,” Caelan murmured. “They like to…embellish.”
“Like propaganda murals,” Rowan said.
“Exactly,” he said.
Two guards in elaborate armor stood before the doors. When they saw Caelan, they straightened.
“Your Highness,” one said formally. “They’re waiting.”
“I know,” Caelan said, and if Rowan hadn’t known he’d been raised in this place, she might have thought he’d never seen it before. His jaw was tight. His eyes, though, were calm.
He squeezed her hand once.
“You remember,” he said quietly. “No smiling. No accepting. No flinching.”
“What about cursing,” she asked. “Is that allowed?”
“In moderation,” he said.
Aisling, still trailing them like a golden shadow, grinned. “Moderation is for Summer,” she said. “Swear at will.”
The guard on the left gave her a look. “My lady—”
“Shut up, Rowan,” Aisling said cheerfully.
He blanched slightly.
Caelan nodded to the guards. “Open it,” he said.
They pushed.
The doors swung inward with a deep, resonant creak.
Sound hit Rowan like a wave.
The throne hall was full.
Fae packed the space—along the walls, clustered around long tables, perched on balconies. The air glittered with floating lights, dust motes, and the shimmer of various glamours. The floor gleamed, polished wood inlaid with swirling patterns.
At the far end, on the raised dais, the throne waited.
The King sat in it.
He wore a cloak of fox fur and autumn leaves, a crown of twisted antlers and amber leaves. His hair gleamed copper in the candlelight. From a distance, he looked…vital. Strong. Only the slight slump to his shoulders and the pallor of his skin gave his decline away.
At his right, in the slightly lower seat of carved wood, sat Lady Maerlyn. Her gown was a study in contradictions—dark green silk that appeared to be woven with living thorns, leaves sprouting from the bodice. Her eyes were bright, cold, relentlessly sharp.
On his left, lounging on the steps rather than bothering with a chair, Aisling had clearly *not* been told to sit somewhere else. She’d gotten there ahead of them, apparently; her golden hair was a splash of light against the dark wood.
Conversations stuttered as Rowan stepped through the doorway.
The hum of the Palace dipped.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward her.
Rowan’s skin prickled.
She did not yank her hand out of Caelan’s. She did not reach for the knife she’d tucked into her boot. She did not run.
She squared her shoulders.
Lifted her chin.
Pretended she was walking onto the floor of Ever After Books with a stack of new arrivals and a line of impatient customers.
Fake it.
She could fake anything. She’d been doing it since she was a kid.
*You are not prey,* she told herself. *You are not a prize pig. You are the dragon.*
Her grandmother’s voice in her head: *If he wants you, he can bleed for it.*
Her friends’ voices: *Make them work for you.*
She walked forward.
Caelan matched her pace, a solid warmth at her side.
Whisper flickered along the ceiling, ember eyes wide, delighted.
“She’s shorter than I imagined,” someone in the crowd murmured.
“More dangerous,” someone else replied. “Look at her eyes.”
“She’s plain,” a third sniffed. “Mortals always are.”
“Plain like iron,” another said.
The murmur swelled, then faded as the King lifted a hand.
Silence fell.
“Welcome,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly. “To the heart of Autumn.”
He wasn’t speaking English.
She understood him anyway.
Some of the syllables prickled on her skin, setting off low-level alarm bells in her bones, but the meaning slid into her ears clean.
“I know why you’re here,” the King went on, eyes on the Court. “You’ve come to see the changeling. The bargain’s child. The fulcrum. The…girl.”
The word dripped condescension.
Rowan’s hackles rose.
He smiled, showing too-even teeth.
“Let us not disappoint,” he said.
His gaze moved.
Landed on her.
It was like being pinned to the wall with a spear.
His eyes were bright, shrewd, hungry. Amusement danced there, along with something colder. Calculation. Craftiness.
He took her in in one long sweep—her jeans, her sweater, the bracelet on her wrist, the way she stood slightly behind Caelan’s shoulder, not hiding but not fully exposed.
“Come forward, child,” he said.
Caelan’s hand tightened on hers.
She forced her feet to move.
Step by step, they walked up the long central aisle.
She kept her gaze forward, refusing to look left or right. She felt the weight of stares like insects on her skin. Caught glimpses in her peripheral vision—horns, antlers, hair that moved like smoke, eyes that glowed faintly.
Whispered comments skittered at the edge of hearing.
“…see the mortal world in her…”
“…smell of coffee and grief…”
“…she’ll break…”
“…she’ll save us…”
“…she’ll burn us…”
At the base of the dais, they stopped.
Caelan’s fingers slid free of hers.
She felt the loss like a physical cold.
He took one step forward and knelt briefly, not fully—no deep bow, more a concession to formality.
“Father,” he said.
“Son,” the King said. “You’ve brought us a guest.”
“Not a gift,” Rowan murmured under her breath.
To her surprise, the corner of the King’s mouth twitched.
“Miss Vance,” he said, voice a hair too smooth. “At last.”
Rowan lifted her chin. “Your Majesty,” she said.
Maerlyn’s eyes flicked over her like talons.
“She speaks,” Maerlyn said dryly. “How novel.”
“She thinks,” Aisling added. “More than some of your favorites.”
A ripple of amusement.
The King chuckled. “Careful, thorn,” he said. “You’re pricking my patience.”
“You like it,” Aisling said.
“Sometimes,” he allowed.
His attention returned to Rowan.
“You’ve come far,” he said. “From your little mortal town. From your grandmother’s bedside. From your…life.”
Her spine stiffened. “Yes,” she said. “I have.”
“What an honor,” he said mockingly. “To be summoned to a throne room by a man who once traded me like a cow.”
The words were out before she could stop them.
The hall sucked in a collective breath.
Maerlyn’s brows shot up.
Caelan’s shoulders went very, very still.
The King’s eyes gleamed.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “You do have teeth.”
Rowan’s heart slammed against her ribs. She’d just talked back to an ancient, semi-immortal king in his own throne room. In front of his entire Court.
Well.
In for a penny.
“My grandmother made a bad deal when she was desperate,” Rowan said, voice steady. “You made a…very cunning deal when you weren’t. I’d say one of you is more culpable than the other.”
“A mortal girl,” Maerlyn drawled, “lecturing us on culpability. Charming.”
Rowan met her gaze. The woman’s eyes were like pond ice—clouded, hiding things underneath.
“With respect,” Rowan said, not bothering to put actual respect in her tone, “if you didn’t want an opinionated mortal in your Court, you shouldn’t have imported one.”
A few surprised laughs, quickly cut off.
The King laughed, full and sharp. “I *like* her,” he said. “For the five minutes before she guts us, at least.”
Rowan’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t tell if he was amused, enraged, or both.
“Tell me, Miss Vance,” the King said. “Why did you come? You could have run. Hidden. Tried to pretend the bargain did not exist. Many would have. Most mortals are very good at pretending things away.”
“Didn’t work so well for you,” she said. “Pretending your coughs aren’t getting worse.”
A hiss rippled the hall.
“Rowan,” Caelan said softly, a warning.
“I came,” Rowan said, voice ringing, “because if you’re going to take something from me, you’re going to do it while I’m looking you in the eye. Not while I’m asleep. Not while I’m dragged. On my feet. My choice.”
The King’s gaze sharpened.
“And because your prince made it worth your while,” Maerlyn interjected, voice dripping disdain. “Offered you rooms. Protection. His heart.”
“I didn’t ask for his heart,” Rowan said quickly.
“No,” Maerlyn said. “You just took it.”
Heat climbed Rowan’s neck. “I don’t—”
Caelan stepped forward.
“Lady Maerlyn,” he said coolly. “If you’re quite done projecting your personal frustrations, perhaps we can return to the matter at hand.”
A few snickers.
Maerlyn’s eyes went cold. “Mind your tongue, boy,” she said. “You’ve already tied it to hers.”
Caelan smiled thinly. “Gladly,” he said. “It’s better company than most tongues in this hall.”
“Oh, this is delightful,” Whisper murmured from above. “We should have invited minstrels.”
The King lifted a hand.
Silence fell again, though it hummed with the tension of words unsaid.
“Enough,” he said. “We can dance later. For now…” He leaned forward, elbows on the arms of his throne. “The bargain,” he said.
Rowan swallowed.
“The terms were simple,” the King said. “A life for a life. A child of my choice, in exchange for your mother’s. Twenty-six years of freedom, and then…” He spread his hands. “Collection.”
“She didn’t agree to it,” Rowan said. “My mother. Or me.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t. That’s…unfortunate. For you. But not…invalid.”
“I know how contracts work,” Rowan said. “On my side. You don’t get to sign someone else’s mortgage and call it their debt.”
He smiled. “Here, we do,” he said.
“Charming legal system,” she muttered.
“It’s what we have,” he said. “And yet…” He cocked his head. “My son tells me you’ve made him…an offer.”
Rowan glanced at Caelan.
He remained still, eyes on his father.
“You’re the one making offers,” she said. “Not me.”
“So modest,” the King said. “Tell me, then. In your own words. What do you think you’ve agreed to?”
Rowan’s jaw clenched.
He was baiting her. Testing. Looking for ignorance. Trying to see how much she understood of the bind she was in.
She refused to play the helpless mortal.
“I’ve agreed,” she said carefully, “to stay in your Court for three months. To learn what I am. To not run. To not…destroy anything that doesn’t deserve it without cause.”
A flicker around the corners of the hall—some amusement, some worry.
“And in return?” the King prompted.
“My life is…protected,” she said. “As much as anything can be in a place like this. I’m not dragged. I’m not…bred out like a stud horse. I get to…think. To choose. To decide what I am to you.”
“And to us,” Aisling added quietly.
“And to us,” Rowan agreed.
The King regarded her.
“And if my Court decides,” he said pleasantly, “that the safest course is still to slit your throat and toss you into the wildwood, what then?”
Caelan went very still.
“So subtle,” Rowan said. “Can’t imagine how you became King with diplomacy like that.”
A ripple of laughter, quickly strangled.
She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“Then,” she said evenly, “you’ll have to go through him.” She tilted her head toward Caelan. “And half your border magic.”
A low murmur.
The King’s eyes glinted. “You assume I care,” he said.
“You do,” she said. “Or you wouldn’t have made that little speech in front of everyone yesterday. Tieing his blood to mine. Making his death your…loss.”
“Clever,” Maerlyn murmured. “She was listening.”
“Always,” Rowan said.
The King’s lips curved. “You are…very sure of yourself,” he said.
“I’m very good at pretending,” she said. “You should be familiar with that.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, the King laughed. Not cruel. Genuinely amused.
“You are your grandmother’s whelp,” he said fondly. “She told me once, in a very unflattering list of my sins, that if I ever came for you, you’d spit in my face before you let me collar you.”
“That sounds like her,” Rowan said, throat tight.
He sobered.
“Do you hate her?” he asked suddenly. “For what she did?”
The question blindsided her.
She flinched.
“Yes,” she said. “And no. And…everything in between.”
“Nuance,” Maerlyn said with mock surprise. “From a mortal.”
“You’re asking me if I hate her,” Rowan said. “Do you? Hate the parts of yourself that made that deal? Or do you…justify them away?”
Whisper’s ember-eyes widened.
The King went very still.
Around them, the Court held its breath.
Then the King smiled, slow and dangerous.
“No one,” he said softly, “has spoken to me like that in a very long time.”
“Maybe you need it,” she said.
His gaze sharpened. “Maybe I do,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I let you come.”
“You didn’t ‘let’ me,” she said. “I came. With or without your blessing.”
He inclined his head. “Fair,” he said. “Very well, girl. You’ve made your entrance.” He sat back. “Now we see what you do with the stage.”
He raised his voice, addressing the hall.
“You have questions,” he said. “About her. About what she means. About whether she’ll save us or doom us. You want to test her teeth. You want to prod her magic. You want to seduce her, bribe her, kill her, crown her.” His smile sharpened. “You will not.”
Murmurs.
“For three months,” the King said clearly, “she is under my son’s protection. Under his *oath.* You all heard it. You all witnessed it. Anyone who harms her without his leave…” He let the sentence trail off, eyes cool. “Will have me to answer to.”
A shiver ran through the crowd.
Maerlyn’s mouth flattened.
Aisling’s eyes gleamed.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t…talk,” the King added, almost casually. “We are not monsters. Entirely.” A few nervous laughs. “Introduce yourselves. Show her our…charms.” His gaze slid back to Rowan. “See what she makes of us.”
“Is that…wise,” Maerlyn hissed.
“Wise?” the King repeated. “Since when has this Court practiced wisdom.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We have a prophecy with teeth, a dying king, a restless prince, and a mortal girl with opinions. Let’s not pretend we can tiptoe around this like diplomats.”
He leaned forward again, eyes on Rowan.
“Three months,” he said quietly. “Then the story…decides.”
“No,” Rowan said.
The hall stirred.
The King’s brows rose. “No?” he repeated.
“I decide,” she said. Her voice shook. She did not let it falter. “Not your story. Not your seer. Not your…Court. You can bind my body here. You already have. But you do not get to…dictate what I am to you. Or to them.” She nodded toward the edges of the hall, where servants and minor courtiers hovered. “Or to her.” Aisling. “Or to him.” Caelan. “Or to *me.*”
Silence.
Then, very softly, Whisper began to clap.
The sound was like dry branches snapping.
It spread slowly.
Lucien—leaning against a column to the left, his wheat-yellow hair tousled—lifted his hands and clapped, amusement glinting in his eyes.
A few others joined. Then more.
Not many.
Enough.
The King watched, something like...pride flickering across his face.
“So,” he said. “You refuse to be a character in my story. You insist on writing your own.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Very well,” he said. “Write quickly. Winter is coming.”
The hall shivered.
The horn sounded again, faintly, somewhere outside the Palace.
Rowan’s skin crawled.
She remembered that cold voice in the seam, the taste of ice.
She wasn’t just a piece on Autumn’s board.
She was on Winter’s, too.
And maybe on others she didn’t even know existed.
“This is going to be messy,” she muttered.
“Good,” Aisling said, hopping lightly to her feet. “I hate tidy stories.”
“Welcome to the Court,” Lucien called lazily. “Try not to die.”
Caelan stepped forward, placing himself just slightly between Rowan and the dais.
“With your leave, Father,” he said, “I’ll take her to rest.”
“Eat,” Maerlyn said sharply. “She looks like she’ll fall over.”
“I’m fine,” Rowan lied.
“You’re vibrating,” Aisling said.
“From all the compliments,” Rowan said.
The King waved a hand. “Go,” he said. “We’ll pester her later. I’m tired of staring at you all.” His lip curled. “And I have dying to do.”
He coughed, a wet sound that spattered red into his hand.
The Court watched him, some with concern, some with calculation.
Rowan felt…no sympathy.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Caelan took her hand again, steady as a heartbeat.
They turned.
Walked back down the aisle.
And if Rowan’s knees shook, if her palms sweated, if her heart pounded loud enough to drown out the whispers—she did not show it.
At least, she hoped she didn’t.
Because as they left the hall, she felt dozens of eyes burrowing into her back.
And one pair of icy, distant ones from far, far away.
---