Three nights later, the Court threw a party.
They called it a Revel.
Rowan called it a very bad idea.
“It’s traditional,” Brenna said, helping lace Rowan into a dress that Aisling had insisted on and Caelan had grudgingly approved. “After a major…event. Or in anticipation of one. Or because it’s Tuesday.”
“Traditional for who?” Rowan asked. “People who don’t have anxiety?”
Brenna’s mouth quirked. “People who have…too much magic and not enough sense,” she said. “The Revels…vent pressure. A little.”
“Or increase it,” Rowan muttered.
The dress wasn’t as awful as she’d feared.
Dark green, simple on top—sleeves to the wrist, neckline modest—but the skirt flowed, layers of soft fabric that moved when she did. It cinched at her waist, giving her a shape she hadn’t realized she had under flannels and jeans. A slit up the left side allowed for movement and, apparently, dramatic leg.
“Why do I feel like a sacrifice,” she grumbled.
“You look like one,” Brenna said cheerfully. “In a very threatening way.”
Rowan gave her a look.
“It’s…armor,” Brenna said more seriously. “In this place, clothes…speak. This says ‘I know where my knife is hidden.’”
“I don’t have a knife,” Rowan said.
Brenna smirked. “You think I’m letting you go down there without one?” She reached under the bed and pulled out a slim dagger in a sheath. Not iron. But sharp. The hilt fit neatly in Rowan’s palm.
“Where—”
“You don’t want to know,” Brenna said.
Rowan slid it into a sheath strapped to her thigh, the slit in the dress making access easy.
She caught her reflection in the mirror.
For a second, she didn’t recognize herself.
Not just because of the dress.
Because of the way she held herself.
Chin up.
Shoulders back.
Eyes fierce.
“You look very fae,” she said faintly.
“You look like you might set the place on fire,” Brenna said. “Perfect.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Three taps.
Rowan’s stomach did a stupid little flip.
“Come in,” she said.
Caelan stepped in.
He stopped.
For a second, he just…stared.
He wore formal Court clothes again.
Not armor. Something worse.
A long coat of deep, burnished brown that caught the light like polished wood. A high‑collared shirt underneath, dark as ink. A sash of russet silk at his waist. His hair was loose, curling softly at his neck. Someone—Lavinia, probably—had convinced him to leave his knife at his hip even for a party.
He looked like the embodiment of Autumn.
Powerful.
Ruthless.
Beautiful.
“Wow,” Harper’s voice said in Rowan’s head, unhelpfully. “Main character energy.”
Rowan swallowed.
“You clean up okay,” she said, because words were her only defense.
He smiled slowly. “So do you,” he said.
His gaze flicked down, taking in the dress, the slit, the knife hilt barely visible.
His nostrils flared slightly.
He looked back up.
Heat burned under her skin at the way his eyes had darkened.
“Stop that,” she blurted.
“Stop…what?” he asked, all innocence.
“Looking at me like—” She cut herself off.
“Like what,” he prodded, entirely too amused.
“Like I’m…dessert,” she said.
His mouth curved. “You’re the main course,” he said.
“Stop,” she said again, half‑laughing, half‑serious.
He inclined his head, but his eyes didn’t soften.
Brenna cleared her throat. “You both look…intimidating,” she said. “Which is good. Do that downstairs. A lot.”
“Have you explained the rules to her?” Caelan asked Brenna, not taking his eyes off Rowan.
“Yes,” Brenna said. “No fruit. No dancing with anyone without three layers of consent. No accepting jewelry from strangers. No making eyes at the Hounds.”
“I would *never* make eyes at a dog,” Rowan said indignantly.
“You say that now,” Brenna said. “Wait until you see them dance.”
Rowan gaped. “The Hounds dance,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Caelan said. “They’re very graceful.”
“I hate this place,” Rowan muttered.
He held out his arm.
She hesitated.
Then slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.
The contact was…electric.
They left the room.
The Palace pulsed with music.
It wasn’t like human music, not exactly. There were drums, yes—deep, insistent. Flutes, high and wild. Strings, plucked and bowed. But there were also notes that weren’t notes. Sounds that seemed to come from the stones themselves, from the shifting of leaves, from the breath of the gathered fae.
The main hall had been transformed.
The long tables were gone, replaced by smaller ones scattered around the edges, laden with food and drink and small, glowing objects that might or might not be edible. The center of the floor was clear—a broad expanse of polished wood, lit by floating globes of amber light.
Fae filled the space.
Some had adorned themselves in more elaborate versions of their usual finery—antlers polished, wings dusted with something that glimmered. Others had taken on more…thematic glamours—masks of leaves, cloaks of spidersilk, hair that shifted colors with the beat of the music.
Rowan felt their attention like a physical thing when she entered.
Eyes slid over her—and Caelan—quickly, assessing.
Maerlyn stood near the far wall, watching EVERYTHING. The King occupied a raised dais with a lower, less imposing chair than his throne, cloak draped more casually, cup in hand. He looked tired. He also looked like he was enjoying himself.
Aisling was in the thick of the dancers already, spinning in a dress of molten gold that caught the light with every turn. She moved like she’d been born to this floor.
Lucien leaned against a pillar off to the side, cup in hand, watching with hooded eyes.
Lavinia sat at a table piled with bottles and jars, observing the crowd with the wary focus of a medic at a mosh pit.
Rowan swallowed.
Caelan’s arm under her hand felt like the only solid thing in the room.
“Remember,” he murmured. “This is…for them. Not you. You are…audience. For now.”
“What does that even mean?” she muttered.
“It means,” he said, “you watch. You learn. You do not…lose yourself.”
“Helpful,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
The music shifted.
Faster.
Wilder.
A collective murmur rose.
The first dance was beginning.
“This,” Caelan said, turning slightly toward her, “is the Knife Dance.”
“Of course it is,” she said.
“It’s…symbolic,” he said. “Pairs. Circles. Showing each other their edges.”
“You’re not selling it,” she said.
He lifted a brow. “Do you trust me?” he asked.
She stared at him.
“No,” she said. “But I’m holding onto you anyway.”
He laughed.
“Good enough,” he said.
He stepped forward, drawing her with him onto the edge of the cleared floor.
The other dancers—couples, trios, circles—shifted, making space.
Rowan’s heart thudded.
“Relax,” Caelan said quietly. “Follow my lead. If anyone tries to…cut in…without your say, you have my permission to step on their feet.”
“Only their feet?” she asked.
He smirked. “We’ll work up to more,” he said.
The music swelled.
Drums throbbed.
Fiddles shrieked in joyous dissonance.
He set one hand at her waist.
Heat flared where his palm met the fabric. Not skin, not direct. But close.
Too close.
His other hand held hers, fingers strong and warm.
He stepped.
She followed.
The dance was…complicated.
Spins, steps, turns that would have tumbled her to the floor if not for his steady grip and the strange certainty that slid into her bones when she stopped thinking.
He moved like he’d been born doing this.
Fluid.
Precise.
Power coiled under his skin, leashed, showing itself in the way his shoulders rolled, the way his feet landed without sound.
Around them, other pairs moved.
Some slow. Some wild.
Aisling spun past in someone else’s arms, laughing, eyes alight.
Lucien stepped into a circle of dancers, hand on his partner’s hip, smile dangerous.
Rowan tried to keep up.
“Don’t think,” Caelan murmured. “Feel.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said through gritted teeth. “You have…fae muscle memory. I have two left human feet.”
“Your feet are fine,” he said. “Your head is in the way.”
“Rude,” she said.
He grinned.
He spun her out, then back in, her skirt flaring around her legs. The room blurred for a second—all lights and color and motion.
When she came back to him, slightly breathless, slightly dizzy, his hand tightened at her waist.
Their bodies were closer now.
Not by much.
Enough.
She could feel the heat of him through the layers of fabric. The steady, solid presence of his chest just inches from hers. His breath brushed her cheek.
“You’re doing well,” he said.
“I’m not on the floor,” she said. “I consider that a win.”
“The Court is watching,” he said. “They see you keeping up. That matters.”
“Why,” she asked.
“Because,” he said, spinning them in a tight circle, “they understand this. Movement. Games. If you held your own against my father in argument, some of them will dismiss that as…novelty. Fluke. But dance…” His mouth tilted. “Dance is…language they respect.”
“You’re telling me politics is choreography,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply.
He spun her again.
For a moment, she let go.
Of the fear.
Of the watchers.
Of the constant mental tally of potential bargains and enemies.
She let the music pour through her, let her body respond to Caelan’s lead, to the way his hand at her back guided, not forced.
It felt…good.
Dangerously so.
He drew her back in.
Their faces were close now.
Too close.
Her heart pounded.
His silver eyes burned.
The world narrowed to the space between them.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You’re the one pulling me around,” she shot back.
“Not that,” he said. “This.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.
Her breath hitched.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He smiled faintly.
“I won’t,” he said. “Not…here.”
The implication vibrated through her.
*Not here.* Not *never.*
Heat flooded her cheeks.
“Tease,” she muttered.
“Always,” he said.
He spun her out again.
A shadow cut between them.
A hand—cooler than Caelan’s, longer—caught hers.
She stumbled, momentum yanking her forward.
A new body.
New scent.
Cold.
Sharp.
Frost.
She snapped her head up.
The man holding her hand smiled.
He was beautiful.
In a way that hurt.
Tall, taller than Caelan by a few inches. Hair like spun silver, falling to his shoulders in straight, shining lines. Skin pale, almost translucent, veins faintly bluish under the surface. Eyes…ice.
Literally.
His irises were the pale blue of glacier ice, shot through with white cracks. His pupils were thin, black slits, vertical and unblinking.
He wore white and gray and the palest blue, fabrics that shimmered like snow under moonlight. No visible weapons. No obvious crown.
Power radiated off him like cold.
“May I?” he said.
It wasn’t really a question.
Rowan yanked her hand back instinctively.
“No,” she said.
He laughed, a low, amused sound. “So sharp,” he said. His accent—not exactly an accent, but a cadence—was different from Autumn’s. Crisper. Clipped. “She takes after you, Caelan.”
Caelan was there a heartbeat later.
Between them.
A wall of Autumn warmth.
“Rian,” he said, voice ice of its own. “I didn’t see your name on the guest list.”
Rian.
Winter emissary.
Of course.
“I slipped in,” Rian said, unconcerned. “You know how it is. Borders are so…porous these days.” His gaze slid over Caelan’s shoulder to Rowan again. “Hello, Rowan Vance.”
She stiffened. “We haven’t been introduced,” she said. “And I didn’t give you my name.”
“Oh, we’ve been…introduced,” Rian said. “In our way. Through seams. Through…howls.” His smile widened. “You taste…intriguing.”
“Fuck off,” she said.
A few nearby dancers faltered.
Rian’s eyes lit. “Ah,” he said. “I see why our Hound is interested.”
Caelan’s hand flexed at his side. “You are not welcome here,” he said. “Officially.”
“The King invited us,” Rian said. “Officially.” He spread his hands. “Am I not allowed to…circulate?”
“Circulate somewhere else,” Caelan said. “Farther away.”
“Or what?” Rian asked, amused. “You’ll…bleed on me again?”
Rowan’s gaze dropped to Caelan’s bandaged arm.
Rian followed it.
He smiled, slow and sharp.
“Oh,” he murmured. “He hasn’t told you everything.”
“Don’t,” Caelan said softly. Dangerous.
Rian tilted his head. “Don’t what?” he asked. “Tell her how he begged? How he put himself under our teeth? How sweet he tasted when he—”
Rowan stepped around Caelan.
Putting herself between them.
Rian’s brows rose.
“You don’t scare me,” she said.
His smile widened. “You should be more afraid,” he said. “Fear keeps mortals warm in our lands.”
“You want something from me,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, monologuing like a Bond villain.”
He blinked. “Bond…?”
“Never mind,” she said. “What is it? Spell it out. I’m tired of…implications.”
He regarded her for a long moment.
“I want,” he said finally, “to offer you…insurance.”
Caelan made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl.
“Of course,” Rowan said. “Cold‑brand life insurance. With convenient small print.”
Rian chuckled. “You are…fun,” he said. “Listen, little hinge. Autumn is…volatile. Unstable. Their king dies. Their prince bleeds. Their prophecies tangle. Our Court is…simpler. Safer. We could…take you in. Shield you. Temper your…edges.”
“Break me,” she translated.
“Refine you,” he corrected. “Sharpen. You would be…honored. Protected. Given a place instead of being everyone’s favorite tug‑of‑war toy.”
“And what would you get?” she asked.
He smiled. “A bridge,” he said. “A way to make *our* bargains with your world. Without going through their…mess.”
“Pass,” she said.
He blinked. “So quick,” he said. “No negotiation? No…I’ll think about it?”
“I told Autumn I’d…think about things,” she said. “I’m not telling you the same. I know enough to know that I don’t want whatever ‘refinement’ looks like in your Court.” She held his gaze. “I like my rough edges.”
His eyes cooled.
“You think they’ll protect you?” he asked, nodding toward Caelan.
“No,” she said. “I think they’ll try. And fail. And bleed. And make terrible bargains. And I’ll have to *fix* as much of it as I can.” Her mouth twisted. “But at least here, I…*know* the knives I’m dancing with.”
“And mine?” he asked softly. “You fear them more.”
“Yes,” she said.
He smiled, sharp. “Good,” he said. “We like honesty.” He stepped back, hands up. “Enjoy your Revel, hinge. We’ll…talk again.”
“No, we won’t,” she said.
He only grinned wider.
Then he melted into the crowd, white and silver and impossible to miss, and yet somehow instantly gone.
Caelan exhaled slowly.
“You shouldn’t have engaged,” he said.
“You didn’t exactly…jump in,” she retorted.
“He would have used anything I said,” Caelan said. “He already *is.* He wanted to rattle you.”
“He did,” she admitted. “For about three seconds. Then I remembered he’s just a glorified ice cube.”
He barked a laugh.
“You’re…playing with fire,” he said.
“Wrong Court,” she said. “This is Autumn. We’re whatever the leaf‑colored version of fire is.”
“Embers,” he said. “Beautiful. Dangerous.”
Her skin tingled where Rian had brushed her, just that brief contact on her hand.
She wiped it on her dress, as if she could erase the sensation.
“Come,” Caelan said. “Let’s get you away from the wolves.”
“I thought we were already surrounded by them,” she said.
“These wolves have better wine,” he said.
He guided her toward a table.
Lucien intercepted them halfway, sliding into their path with practiced ease.
“Well handled,” he said to Rowan. “Ten out of ten. No notes.”
“I called him an ice cube,” she said. “That’s my only note.”
“It was…refreshing,” Lucien said. His gaze flicked to Caelan’s bandage. “You should keep a tighter leash on your arm.”
“Noted,” Caelan said dryly.
Aisling appeared at Lucien’s shoulder, cheeks flushed from dancing, hair slightly mussed. “You let her dance with Winter’s pet?” she demanded of Caelan.
“He cut in,” Caelan said. “Briefly.”
“And you let him keep all his fingers?” Aisling said. “Sloppy.”
“I was distracted,” he said.
“By what,” she asked.
His gaze slid to Rowan.
Her breath caught.
Aisling rolled her eyes. “You two are going to give me cavities,” she said. “Come on, mirror. Dance with me before I have to watch you make eye contact at each other across the room like Victorian lovers.”
Rowan blinked. “I don’t know your dances,” she said.
“You don’t need to,” Aisling said. “You just need to let go.”
Rowan hesitated.
She glanced at Caelan.
His jaw ticked.
“Go,” he said quietly. “I’ll…watch.”
“You always do,” she said.
He smiled, small and crooked.
She let Aisling drag her back onto the floor.
The music had shifted again.
Slower now.
More sinuous.
The Knife Dance had been about edges. This one was about…shadows.
Aisling took her hand, spun her, pulled her close.
They moved together surprisingly easily.
Where Caelan’s lead had been steady, grounding, Aisling’s was wild. She pushed and pulled, spun and dipped, laughing, hair flashing like a coin in the light.
“You were good with Rian,” she said in Rowan’s ear. “Mocking Winter is one of my hobbies.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Rowan said.
“Of course not,” Aisling said. “You did it for you. That’s why I appreciated it.”
She spun Rowan, then caught her back in a loose hold, their faces close.
“Be careful,” Aisling murmured. “He won’t give up. He likes puzzles. And you’re one he hasn’t solved yet.”
“He can fuck off,” Rowan said.
“Yes,” Aisling said. “But fuck has…consequences.”
Rowan snorted.
They danced.
They didn’t talk much more.
Rowan’s body moved.
Her mind tracked.
Faces.
Reactions.
Maerlyn watching with narrowed eyes but a faint, reluctant smile.
Lucien grinning over the rim of his cup, eyes bright.
The King slouched in his lower throne, fingers tapping in time to the music, gaze flicking between Rowan, Caelan, Aisling, Rian.
Whisper coiled along the ceiling, ember eyes gleaming, drinking in every moment.
By the time the Revel wound down—if it ever did; the Court seemed to have an endless appetite for its own spectacle—Rowan’s feet ached, her head buzzed, and her heart felt like a bruised fruit.
Brenna whisked her away before too many stray hands could “accidentally” brush her on the way past.
Caelan appeared at her door not long after.
He didn’t knock this time.
He just leaned in the frame, looking unusually…uncertain.
She sat on the edge of the bed, dress pooled around her, knife laid on the table.
“You did well,” he said.
“Stop saying that,” she said. “It makes me nervous.”
“It’s true,” he said.
“I told Winter to fuck off,” she said. “That’s not…strategic.”
“It is,” he said. “Sometimes. He expects fear. You gave him contempt. He doesn’t know what to do with that yet.”
“He’ll learn,” she said.
“Probably,” he said.
He studied her for a long moment.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“Observant,” she said.
He stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
The room shifted subtly, the wards humming at the change in pressure.
He stopped a few feet away.
“I should go,” he said. “Let you sleep.”
She didn’t answer.
He hesitated.
“I—” he began.
“Stay,” she said.
The word was out before she could stop it.
He froze.
“Rowan,” he said softly.
“In the chair,” she added quickly. “Not—” Her face burned. “I just…don’t want to…dream alone.”
His expression gentled.
“As you wish,” he said.
He sat.
The chair creaked faintly under his weight.
Silence settled.
Comfortable.
Almost.
“Caelan,” she said after a moment.
“Yes?” he replied.
“When this is over,” she said, “when the three months are up, when your father dies, when Winter decides whether to chew on us or not, when we’ve…whatever…will you miss me?”
He went very still.
It was a stupid question.
Childish.
Selfish.
She couldn’t help it.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Her throat closed.
She lay back, staring at the leaves painted on the ceiling.
“You shouldn’t,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said.
She smiled, small, where he couldn’t see.
“Good,” she whispered.
Her eyes drifted shut.
She slept.
This time, her dreams were…quieter.
No cracked sky.
No claws.
No Winter howls.
Just a crooked tree.
Falling leaves.
A hand in hers.
Warm.
Steady.
And somewhere in the twisted roots of the wildwood, an old thing stirred and smiled and waited for its moment to crack everything open.
The dance had only just begun.