Rowan woke to the sound of leaves.
Not outside, not rustling on a roof the way they did at home, but closer—like someone was shaking a tree right next to her ear.
Her eyes snapped open.
For a disorienting second, she forgot where she was.
The ceiling above her was not the cracked white plaster of her apartment. It was a canopy of carved wood and painted leaves, each one a different shade of ochre or burgundy. A small carved fox peered down at her from a beam, head cocked, as if judging.
The bed under her was softer than any she’d slept in. The air smelled of smoke and something floral. Her body ached faintly, the way it did after a long hike.
Right.
Not home.
Autumn Court.
She pushed herself up on her elbows.
Her pack sat where she’d dropped it last night. The charm around her neck was warm against her skin. Her boots lay neatly side by side near the hearth, which now held a cheerful fire instead of glowing embers.
Caelan was gone.
The chair by the fireplace was empty, cushion slightly depressed. A blanket—had that been there last night?—hung over the back.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he’d said.
Apparently he’d kept that promise, then left before she woke.
A tiny, unreasonable flare of disappointment lit in her chest.
“You liked him there,” she muttered to herself. “Weird.”
From the mantle, Ash cawed.
He hopped down onto the bedpost, then onto the quilt, beady eyes bright. He strutted to her knee and pecked it lightly.
“Ow,” Rowan said. “Good morning to you too, feathered menace.”
He fluffed his feathers smugly.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The polished floor was cool under her bare feet.
As she stood, the room shifted.
Not physically—the walls didn’t move, the furniture didn’t slide—but the air…noticed her. It was a ridiculous thought, but it was the only way she could describe it.
Tiny threads of sensation brushed her skin. The faintest tingling, like static, tracing her arms, her throat.
“Okay,” she said aloud. “We’re not going to panic about sentient architecture.”
The room, predictably, didn’t respond.
She padded to the small washroom.
The basin filled itself when she turned the carved leaf knob. The water was cool and soft, not quite like any water she’d felt—heavier, almost. She splashed her face, gasping as the chill bit.
When she glanced at the mirror—polished metal instead of glass—her reflection looked…mostly like herself. Dark curls a mess, eyes tired and smudged. But there was something extra there now, a faint brightness around her pupils. A sharpness at the corners of her mouth that hadn’t been there before Gran died.
Aisling’s words floated up. *We own each other.*
Rowan scowled at her own face. “No, we don’t,” she muttered.
After she brushed her teeth with a disturbingly minty paste that materialized in a little dish when she thought *toothbrush*, she eyed the wardrobe again.
The clothes had been chosen by Aisling. That alone made her want to reject them on principle.
She opened the doors.
The first thing that greeted her was a dress the color of deep wine, cut in a way that made her ears burn. Low neckline. Slit to the thigh. No way in hell for Day One.
She pushed it aside.
Underneath were things more practical. Soft tunics. Leggings. Slim-cut trousers. A long, dark green coat whose fabric felt like if velvet and leather had a very expensive child.
Fae fashion, or at least Aisling’s version of it, apparently understood “movement” and “stabbing range.”
She pulled out a pair of dark trousers and a rust-colored tunic with lacing at the collar. They fit uncannily well when she put them on.
Of course they did. Aisling had been watching her too.
She laced up her boots, took a deep breath, and went to the door.
The handle was shaped like a leaf. When she touched it, it warmed, recognizing her.
She cracked the door and peeked out.
The corridor beyond was quiet.
Soft light came from stem-like sconces along the walls. The floor was dark wood, polished to a soft sheen. Doors lined one side, each carved with different motifs—foxes, owls, antlers. Across from her door, another—framed by thorny vines—stood closed.
Caelan’s, presumably.
She stepped out, letting the door close softly behind her.
A weight landed on her shoulder.
Ash.
“Are you my emotional support crow now?” she asked.
He cawed, sounding smug.
“You said you wanted to see the crooked tree.”
She turned.
Caelan leaned in the doorway across the hall, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms folded.
If the room had noticed her, he…focused.
Even in simple black trousers and a dark shirt, no coat, no formal accents, he looked…dangerous. Barefoot, even, which did unfair things to her brain.
“You walk quiet,” Rowan said. “It’s unsettling.”
He pushed off the doorframe and came closer. “Old habits,” he said. “Hunting. Hiding.”
“Stalking,” she added.
“Observing,” he corrected mildly.
She snorted. “Tomato, tomahto.”
He looked her up and down, not in a leering way, but assessing. “She chose well,” he said.
Rowan bristled. “I’m not a mannequin.”
“I meant the clothes,” he said. “The color suits you. Brings out the iron in your eyes.”
“Iron in my eyes,” she repeated. “Is that a compliment here?”
“Yes,” he said seriously.
She rolled her eyes to hide the warmth that crept up her neck.
“Come,” he said. “Before someone has the bright idea to send breakfast to your room and you have to eat in front of the wallpaper face.”
“The what?” she asked.
He gestured to a carved face in the corner near the ceiling, one she hadn’t noticed. Its eyes were closed. Its mouth was a thin line.
“It wakes up when food arrives,” he said. “And comments.”
She stared. “Your walls comment on your eating habits.”
“Not mine,” he said. “Yours.”
“We’re having a long talk about your interior decorator later,” she said.
He offered his arm again.
She hesitated.
“Practice,” he murmured. “Walking.”
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.
It felt…strange. But less so than last night.
“As your people say,” he said as they started down the hall, “fake it until you make it.”
She choked. “You’ve been on the internet,” she accused.
“I have not,” he said. “But Lucien has. It’s horrifying. I pick up things.”
“You have Lucien on TikTok,” she said faintly. “I need to see this.”
“Later,” he said. “When you’re stronger. It’s…a lot.”
They turned a corner.
The corridor opened into a balcony that looked down over the courtyard with the crooked tree.
The sight tugged at Rowan.
“Oh,” she breathed.
From above, the tree was even more clearly an anomaly.
The other trees in the courtyard—slim birches, graceful maples—stood mostly straight, branches fanning neatly. This one…didn’t.
Its trunk twisted sharply to one side halfway up, then bent back, forming a crooked, almost S-shaped curve. Branches jutted at odd angles. Patches of bark were rougher, darker. Scars.
But it was beautiful.
Leaves in shades of copper and gold clung to its branches, some fluttering down in slow, lazy spirals. A young fae girl chased them, giggling, trying to catch as many as she could in her arms.
“Your mother,” Rowan said quietly.
“Yes,” he said. “She and my father had a spectacular fight over that tree. She won.”
“Explains a lot,” she said.
He huffed.
They watched in silence for a moment.
“Do you ever…rest?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “This is me resting.”
“No, I mean—” He gestured vaguely at her. “You’re always…tense. Coiled.”
“You want me to…relax,” she said slowly. “Here. In your murder palace.”
“It’s not a murder palace,” he protested. “We do other things.”
“Like what?” she asked. “Crochet?”
“Hunt. Feast. Read,” he said. “Argue. Scheme. We’re very multifaceted.”
She smirked. “I’ll take ‘argue’ for five hundred, Alex.”
He frowned. “Who is Alex?”
She waved a hand. “Dead game show host. Never mind.”
He shook his head. “Your world is…very weird,” he said.
“Oh, *now* it’s weird,” she said.
A bell chimed somewhere.
Low. Resonant.
“Breakfast,” Caelan said. “Come. Auntie will be offended if you’re late.”
“Auntie,” she repeated. “You have an auntie.”
“Not by blood,” he said. “By cake.”
***
The smells hit her first.
Warm bread. Honey. Something savory—meat, herbs, spices she couldn’t quite place.
The dining hall was smaller than the throne room, but not by much. Long tables sat in rows, groaning under platters of food. The ceiling was lower, beams crisscrossing overhead. Sunlight—if that’s what it was—slanted through high windows, making dust motes dance like tiny stars.
Fae occupied the benches: warriors in half-armor, courtiers in looser morning clothes, servants weaving around with jugs.
At the far end of the nearest table, a woman stood at a sideboard, overseeing a row of steaming baking sheets.
She was…round.
Not fat in the caricatured fairy tale way, but solid. Strong. Arms thick with muscle from kneading dough. Her hair was a wild tangle of gray and black, pinned up haphazardly with bits of twig and ribbon. Her apron was stained with flour.
Her face, when she turned, was lined and kind and sharp all at once.
“Auntie Brann,” Caelan said. “We have a guest.”
She looked Rowan over.
“Skinny,” she said. “Too many sharp edges.”
Rowan opened her mouth.
Brann shoved a plate into her hands.
“Eat,” she commanded. “Then sass.”
The plate held a honey cake. Exactly as Caelan had described—edges burned, middle too dense. Sticky.
“Thank you,” Rowan said automatically.
Brann’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “I don’t cooks for gratitude. I cooks for rebellion.”
Caelan’s lips twitched. “She’s very political,” he murmured.
“Shut up, boy,” Brann said without looking at him. She twisted his ear fondly. He actually yelped.
Rowan took a cautious bite.
It was too sweet.
The burnt edge stuck to her teeth.
It was…perfect.
Something hot prickled behind her eyes.
She swallowed hard.
Brann watched her face. “Good,” she said gruffly. “You’re not dead inside. Sit. Eat. Then you go let Maerlyn make your head spin with rules.”
“Oh good,” Rowan muttered. “Orientation.”
***
The rules, as Maerlyn presented them in the long, sunless room lined with scrolls, were less “orientation” and more “how not to get yourself executed in fifty easy steps.”
Rowan sat at a tall table, hands folded to hide their shaking. Maerlyn perched on a high stool opposite, her thorn-wrapped gown rustling.
“Number one,” Maerlyn said. “Do not accept gifts in public without acknowledging them aloud. It creates obligations. People will assume you’ve just promised something, even if you haven’t.”
Rowan nodded. “So if someone hands me a flower…?”
“You say, ‘I receive this and nothing more,’” Maerlyn said. “Then you eat it.”
Rowan blinked. “Eat—”
“They will not expect that,” Maerlyn said, eyes gleaming. “It will unsettle them. Use that.”
She scribbled in the little notebook Zia had insisted she bring.
“Number two,” Maerlyn went on. “Never say ‘I promise’ unless you are prepared for the wood to record it.”
“The wood…records,” Rowan repeated slowly.
“Every oath in this Court,” Maerlyn said. “Spoken with intent. The roots hear. The trees remember. That is what gives our bargains teeth. And stability.” Her gaze sharpened. “You, above all, must be careful where you bleed your words.”
Rowan swallowed. “Noted.”
“Number three,” Maerlyn said. “Do not dance unless you intend to be noticed. And do not let just anyone lead.”
“I wasn’t planning to dance,” Rowan muttered.
“Good,” Maerlyn said. “We are very good at dancing. And traps.”
They went on like that.
Rules of address—*call the King ‘Your Majesty’ unless you want to start a war; call Maerlyn ‘my lady’ unless you want thorns up your nose.* Forms of refusal—*‘I decline’ is safer than ‘no’; ‘I will consider it’ is an escape hatch, not an answer.* Subtle gestures that meant *interest,* *threat,* *invitation.*
Halfway through, Rowan’s head hurt.
“Enough,” Maerlyn said finally, when Rowan’s handwriting had devolved into tired scrawls. “You’ll learn more by watching than by lists.” She tilted her head. “You’re not as overwhelmed as I expected.”
“I’m very overwhelmed,” Rowan said. “I just learned to hide it in customer service.”
“In what?” Maerlyn asked.
“Nothing,” Rowan said quickly.
Maerlyn’s lips curved. “You are…refreshing,” she said. “Annoying. But refreshing.”
“That seems to be the consensus,” Rowan said.
Maerlyn slid off the stool with surprising grace for someone swaddled in thorns. “The King will send for you soon,” she said. “There will be…presentations. People who want to secure your favor. Or your death.”
“Comforting,” Rowan said.
“Be flattered,” Maerlyn said dryly. “Very few beings get to be both prize and threat. Use it.”
She swept out, thorns whispering.
Rowan let her forehead fall to the table with a soft thunk.
“Are you quite done trying to concuss yourself?” a voice drawled from the doorway.
She didn’t lift her head. “Possibly,” she said. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Lucien,” the voice said. “At your service. Or not. Depending on how amusing you are.”
She peeked sideways.
Lucien leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looked as he had in her brief glimpses through the seam—tall, lean, honey-colored hair slightly too long, green-gold eyes full of mischief and boredom in equal measure. He wore a deep blue coat and a shirt open enough to show a bit of chest and a hint of a tattoo peeking from his collarbone.
“Ah,” Rowan said. “The one with TikTok.”
His lips parted. Then he laughed, startled and delighted. “Oh, he *did* tell you,” he said. “Traitor.”
“He said you fell down an internet hole,” she said.
“I prefer ‘researching mortals,’” he said. “It’s my hobby.”
“Stalking,” she corrected.
“We call it…observation,” he said, echoing Caelan.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”
He sauntered in. “I came to steal you,” he said. “Caelan is busy fighting with three old men and a tree about etiquette for tonight. I drew the short straw for entertaining you in the meantime.”
“I’m not a toddler,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said. “I’m terrible with children.”
She straightened slowly. “What’s tonight?” she asked warily.
“The King’s little ‘look what I caught’ party,” Lucien said cheerfully. “Feast. Music. Thinly veiled threats. You’ll love it.”
Her stomach dropped. “He said…presentations. I thought that was…later.”
“In Autumn, ‘later’ often means ‘tonight,’” Lucien said. “You’ll get used to it.”
She groaned. “I don’t even know how to sit in your chairs without offending someone,” she said.
“Offend them,” Lucien said. “It’s fun.”
She eyed him. “You and Maerlyn should form a club,” she said.
He grinned. “We have one,” he said. “It’s called the Court.”
***
Lucien didn’t take her back to her room.
He took her sideways.
Through corridors that narrowed and widened. Down a stair that seemed to grow extra steps as they descended. Through a door that looked like part of the wall until he pressed his hand to it.
They emerged onto a balcony overlooking the training yard.
Below, fae sparred.
Not with wooden practice swords.
With real blades.
The air sang with the clash of metal. Bodies moved in patterns that were almost dance—lunge, parry, spin. Some had visible weapons. Others used claws, magic, teeth.
Watching them made something in Rowan’s chest clench and loosen at the same time.
“How are you with a blade?” Lucien asked casually.
“I’m good with…kitchen knives,” she said. “Chopping. Slicing. Stabbing vegetables.”
He hummed. “You’ll need more than that here,” he said.
“I thought I was under Caelan’s protection,” she said.
“You are,” Lucien said. “But he can’t be everywhere. And honestly, it’s much more attractive when you can stab people yourself.”
She snorted. “You think I care about being attractive to any of you.”
“I think you care about being…effective,” he said. “And blades are effective. Also, we are very good at teaching. It’s one of the few things we do better than you.”
She watched a woman with braided hair disarm a man twice her size with three fluid moves and a kick to the chest.
Her fingers itched.
“Fine,” she said. “Where do I sign up for Stabbing 101?”
Lucien’s grin widened. “Right here,” he said. “With me.”
***
He was a frustratingly good teacher.
He didn’t start her with a sword.
He started her with balance.
“Your center of gravity is all wrong,” he said, nudging her foot with his boot. “You stand like a mortal. Too much in your heels. Not enough in the balls of your feet.”
“Maybe because I *am* mortal,” she snapped.
“In blood, partly,” he said. “In habits, completely. We’re going to fix that.”
They spent an hour just…walking.
Forward. Backward. Sideways.
Every time she slid into an old pattern—leaning back, slouching, letting her weight sit too much on one leg—he corrected her.
“Think of the seam,” he said once. “How it felt. All that pressure. You didn’t fall. You…rode it. Do that. Here. On the ground.”
Sweat trickled down her spine.
Her thighs burned.
Her temper frayed.
“This seems like overkill,” she said between breaths.
“It’s the difference between dodging a knife and wearing it,” he said. “You want to live, hinge? Learn to move.”
She wanted to snap that she didn’t need another nickname based on metaphorical door hardware.
Instead, she shifted her weight the way he’d shown her.
It felt…better.
More grounded.
“Good,” he said. “Now again.”
Halfway through the second hour, Caelan appeared at the edge of the yard.
He watched them for a moment. His expression was unreadable.
Lucien didn’t acknowledge him.
“Again,” Lucien said.
Rowan wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “If you make me take one more step without letting me hit something—”
“Fine,” Lucien said. He tossed her a short blade.
She caught it—barely—with both hands, almost dropping it. It was heavier than it looked, the hilt cold against her damp palm.
She’d expected some surge of magic at the contact. Some zing, some burn.
It just felt like metal.
“Not iron,” Lucien said. “We’re not *completely* monsters.”
She glared.
“Show me how you’d stab me,” he said.
She blinked. “What.”
“If I attacked you,” he said. “Here. Now. How would you stab me?”
She raised the knife awkwardly.
Lunged.
He caught her wrist with insulting ease and twisted. The blade clattered to the ground.
“Wrong,” he said.
“No shit,” she muttered, rubbing her wrist.
“Again,” he said.
They did that for what felt like forever.
Every time she thought she had him, he moved in a way she didn’t anticipate. Every time she lunged, he redirected her momentum. Once, he let her get close enough that the blade brushed his side, then flicked her foot with his, sending her stumbling.
“You’re using anger,” he said. “Good fuel. Sloppy aim.”
“Stop talking like a self-help book,” she said.
By the time he let her stop, her muscles trembled. Blisters were forming on her palms.
Caelan stepped forward.
“Enough,” he said.
Lucien pouted. “I was just starting to have fun.”
“She needs to be conscious tonight,” Caelan said. “We can’t have her falling into the soup.”
Rowan made a face. “There’s going to be soup,” she said. “Of course there is.”
Lucien sheathed his blade. “You’re not terrible,” he told her.
“Be still my heart,” she said dryly.
He grinned. “I’ll be back for you,” he said. “We’re going to make you dangerous.”
“I thought I already was,” she said.
“Right now?” he said. “You’re…potential. We’re going to make you kinetic.”
He sauntered off, whistling.
Caelan watched him go, exasperation evident.
“He likes you,” he said.
“I gathered,” she said. “He insults me with affection.”
“That’s his love language,” Caelan said.
“What’s yours?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
He blinked. “Mine?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Gifts? Words of affirmation? Binding life-and-death oaths?”
“Probably the last one,” he said dryly. “Acts of service. I bleed for people. It’s…a problem.”
She huffed a laugh.
He stepped closer.
Gently, he took her hand.
Her right palm was blistered, the skin raised and angry where the hilt had rubbed.
“May I?” he asked.
“You’re asking now,” she said. “Progress.”
He smiled faintly. “May I?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said.
He turned her hand over.
Laid his palm over hers.
Warmth spread.
Not the burn of iron, not the tingling of the seam.
A different, deeper warmth.
He murmured under his breath.
The blisters cooled.
When he let go, the skin was whole again.
She flexed her fingers. “Useful,” she said.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “Pain teaches. I’m indulging you because tonight will be…long.”
“Speaking of,” she said. “How does one dress for ‘subtle Court intimidation and appetizers’?”
His lips quirked. “Come,” he said. “Aisling left notes.”
“Of course she did,” Rowan muttered as she followed him back into the Palace. “That woman is everywhere.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “She is.”
He glanced back at Rowan.
His gaze flicked down, briefly, to the mark Zia had left on her palm—still faintly visible when the light hit it right.
“Your friends did good work,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
He looked at her face.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Help me fake it.”
He smiled.
He offered his arm again.
She took it.
And together, they walked back into the heart of the Court, toward the waiting jaws of the feast.
---