Training, as it turned out, did not just mean learning to set things on fire without incinerating herself.
“Magic is only half the game,” Lucien said the next afternoon, sprawled in a chair in Rowan’s sitting room, boots on the table, a deck of cards in his hands. “The other half is…this.”
“This being…?” Rowan asked warily.
“Lying,” he said cheerfully. “And telling the truth when it hurts most.”
“I’m already very good at lying to myself,” she said. “Does that count?”
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll weaponize it.”
He flicked a card at her.
She caught it on reflex.
The Queen of Hearts stared up at her with a smirk.
“You’re dramatic,” she said.
“You say that like it’s an insult,” Lucien said. He shuffled the rest of the deck with showy flourishes. “Here’s the thing, hinge. Everyone here—Kings, Queens, swamp witches, Winter mutts—they all operate on assumptions. Patterns. Scripts. They think they know what a mortal will do. They think they know what a changeling will do. They *definitely* think they know what Caelan will do.”
“So we prove them wrong,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said. “We twist their expectations. We smile when they expect us to snarl. We cry when they expect us to be stone. We tell the truth in the exact moment they are certain we will lie.”
“Sounds exhausting,” she said.
“It is,” he said. “But it keeps you alive.”
He dealt three cards face down on the table between them.
“Pick one,” he said.
“Why,” she asked.
“Because I told you to,” he said. “And because I’m trying to illustrate a point.”
She sighed and pointed at the middle card.
He flipped it.
The Tower.
Of course.
“Audience participation,” she muttered.
Lucien grinned. “You have a flair,” he said. “Good. Let’s start simple.” He leaned forward. “Tell me a truth.”
“About what,” she asked.
“Anything,” he said. “The first thing that comes to mind.”
She thought.
“I hate your chairs,” she blurted.
He blinked. “My—”
“They move,” she said. “They adjust when I sit down. They feel like they’re…learning me. It’s creepy.”
He laughed, delighted. “Good,” he said. “Now. Lie. About the same thing. Make me believe you.”
“I love your chairs,” she said flatly.
“Terrible,” he said. “No one believes that. Try again.”
She glared. “Your chairs are…fine,” she said. “Comfortable. Homey.”
He watched her. “Better,” he said. “You still cringed on ‘homey.’”
“Because nothing about this place is homey,” she said.
“See?” he said. “You can’t sell what you don’t feel. So don’t try to sell those lies. Find ones that sit closer to the center.”
She frowned. “You want me to…half-lie,” she said. “Gray-lie.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Say the part that is true. Leave out the part that damns you. It works with us because we *feel* truth. The more true your words, the less we poke at the gaps.”
“That sounds…dangerous,” she said. “For you.”
“It is,” he said. “That’s why it’s such fun.” He pointed at the Tower card. “That is you. You are a disruption. Old structures crumble around you. Use that. When Maerlyn asks you what you think of her little rules, don’t say ‘they’re stupid’—” he winked “—even if they are. Say, ‘They’re…useful. For you.’ Let her see enough of your mind to intrigue her. Not enough to arm her.”
“And you,” she said. “What about your lies?”
“Oh, I’m mostly honest,” he said.
She snorted.
“Mostly,” he repeated. “I lie in my silences. In what I choose not to mention. That’s harder for your magic to burn.”
She thought of the way her sparks had lit leaves. The way the Council chamber felt…denser where vows hung heavy.
“Can I…burn your lies?” she asked, half joking.
Lucien’s expression went still. “Maybe,” he said. “One day. Don’t practice on me.”
“Then on who?” she asked.
He smiled, slow and sly. “On someone who deserves it,” he said. “Which brings us to lesson two: bait.”
He dealt another card.
The Devil.
“Of course,” Rowan muttered.
“You are very card-accurate today,” Lucien said. “Bait is simple. You dangle something they want and then you watch to see how they move toward it. Information. Affection. Power.”
“I am not…dangling affection,” she said. “I barely know how to have it.”
“Not yet,” he said. “But you already do it without thinking. With Harper. With Zia. With my idiot prince.”
“He’s not—” she started, then stopped. “He’s…your idiot prince?”
“For now,” Lucien said. His eyes softened. “He chose you, you know.”
“He keeps saying that,” she muttered.
“Believe him,” Lucien said quietly. “At least about that.”
She swallowed.
Silence stretched.
“You love him,” she blurted.
Lucien blinked. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he said. “But yes. He’s…mine. Stupid, stubborn, noble bastard that he is.”
“Good,” she said. “He needs as many idiots on his side as possible.”
Lucien laughed.
“Back to bait,” he said. “When Mire dangled freedom, what did she really want?”
“Access,” Rowan said immediately. “A door. Through me.”
“Good,” he said. “And you saw that. You didn’t leap for the shiny word. You looked at the hooks. That’s what you need to do with everyone.”
“Including Aisling,” she said.
“Especially Aisling,” he said. “She will offer you…solidarity. Shared anger. A way to flip the table. None of those are bad in themselves. But look at where her offers lead. Who benefits most. Who bleeds.”
“And you?” she asked. “What’s your bait.”
He smirked. “Fun,” he said. “You’re bored. Trapped. I offer you ways to stab things and make sarcastic comments.”
“Effective,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said.
She stared at the cards.
“Do you think I can…do this?” she asked quietly. “Really? Stand between all of you and…not get dragged under.”
Lucien tilted his head.
“You already are,” he said simply. “You just haven’t seen the ripples yet.”
“That’s what scares me,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Fear is a leash you can hold. As long as it doesn’t hold you.”
“You’re full of awful metaphors,” she muttered.
“Yes,” he said. “But you remember them.”
***
The rest of the day vanished into a blur of lessons.
Magic with the orchard witch—a sharp-eyed woman named Iseult who smelled of smoke and apples and had no patience for Rowan’s self-deprecation.
“You think too much,” Iseult snapped, whacking Rowan’s calf with a stick when she hesitated. “The magic doesn’t care about your existential crisis. It cares about where you point it.”
“If I point it at you, will you stop hitting me?” Rowan shot back.
Iseult’s teeth flashed. “Try it,” she said.
Rowan did.
The spark fizzled midway, jumping instead to a cluster of hanging apples.
They glowed gold for a second, then dropped.
One hit Iseult in the shoulder.
The witch laughed.
“Better,” she said. “You’re annoyingly promising.”
Manners with Brann, who took it upon herself to teach Rowan which fork not to use to start a war.
“This one,” Brann said, brandishing a delicate, three-tined piece of silver, “is for fruit. You will never use it. If someone hands it to you, they’re being an ass. Stab them with it.”
“That seems…counterproductive,” Rowan said.
“Only if they live,” Brann said.
By the time evening rolled around again, Rowan’s brain buzzed.
Her body ached.
Her magic hummed like a hive.
She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her too-soft bed and pretend the Court didn’t exist for a few hours.
Instead, she had to dress.
Aisling had gotten her wish.
The green coat hung in her wardrobe like a promise. The rust tunic lay folded neatly. Next to them, though, Brann had shoved something else.
A simple black dress.
Soft. Knee-length. Sleeves that hit mid-forearm. High neckline. Nothing scandalous. Nothing overtly Court.
Rowan ran her fingers over it.
There was a note pinned to the hanger, written in Brann’s surprisingly delicate script.
*Wear this,* it read. *They expect glitter. Give them gravecloth. Love, B.*
Rowan smiled, small and fierce.
She put it on.
It fit.
Of course.
She tied her curls back with a strip of ribbon. Slipped on boots. Fastened the bracelet.
When she stepped out into the corridor, Caelan’s breath caught.
He’d been pacing.
He wore dark clothes again—this time a deep burgundy tunic that made his eyes look brighter, black trousers, boots polished to an almost mirror sheen. A thin circlet of twisted metal rested on his brow.
He looked at her like he’d never seen a dress before.
“What,” she said, suddenly self-conscious.
“You look…” He stopped, as if the word had gotten stuck. “Like yourself,” he said finally. “And not like any Courtier ever has.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m not auditioning for your glitter cult.”
He laughed softly, tension easing a fraction.
He offered his arm.
She took it.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I’ve gotten very good at pretending.”
He smiled.
“So have we all,” he said.
They walked into the evening together.
Toward the High Council’s smaller, sharper, more dangerous feast.
And the Court watched.
Waiting.
---