The summons arrived at dawn.
I had been half-dreaming when the knock came, my thoughts drifting on the edge of sleep, where the shadows sometimes whispered like distant voices. The chamber was dim, the fire burned low, and I had almost convinced myself I was still in Willowsend, still in the house with the pear tree that never bloomed. But then the knock came again. Three measured strikes.
A servant entered without raising his eyes. He carried a folded slip of black parchment, its edges sealed with wax stamped in silver. He held it toward me with hands too steady.
"From His Majesty," he said, voice like smoke.
I broke the seal with fingers colder than the stone floor.
The message was short.
Tonight. Attend the Court.
Beneath, a mark scrawled in silver: the crescent-and-bar of the covenant seal. No signature. He hadn't needed one.
I stared at the ink until it seemed to move, then folded the parchment slowly, pressing it into the palm of my hand. The servant bowed and vanished, the door closing behind him with a hush that felt more final than thunder.
Tonight.
The first week of silence ended with two words. They dressed me in crimson.
Not the soft red of roses or autumn leaves, but the darker shade of dried blood, woven into a gown heavy with embroidery. Silver vines climbed the bodice, curling into sharp thorns along the sleeves. The weight of it dragged at my shoulders, and when the maids laced it tight, I almost laughed.
Armour, Castiel had called it. It felt more like chains. I stood before the mirror, the veil of gauze gone now, my hair braided into a crown once more. The reflection that stared back was pale, her lips painted the colour of spilled wine, her eyes shadowed by sleepless nights.
A queen, perhaps. Or prey dressed as one.
"Will they try to kill me?" I asked one of the maids. She froze, needle and thread trembling in her hands.
"They will not dare," she whispered. "Not while the king watches."
"And when he doesn't?"
Her silence was answer enough. The great hall pulsed with sound when I entered that night.
Balconies draped in silks overflowed with lords and ladies of the Crimson Court, their jewels glimmering, their eyes gleaming too bright in the torchlight. They leaned close to one another, their whispers carrying far, their lips red-stained from the goblets they held.
The scent of blood lingered in the air—metallic, cloying, threaded with wine and smoke. Servants moved quietly between them, carrying trays of chalices. Some chalices gleamed with ruby liquid; others were darker, thicker, richer. Every eye turned to me. The hall quieted, but only a little. Whispers rose in their place, sliding between the columns, curling around my skirts as I walked.
"The mortal queen."
"Look how fragile she is."
"She will not last the season."
I fixed my eyes on the dais at the far end. Castiel sat upon his throne, the weight of the hall bent toward him. He had not looked at me yet. I walked the length of the chamber, the sound of my steps echoing against the obsidian floor. My pulse roared, but I held my head high. They would not see me falter. They would not see me tremble.
When I reached the base of the dais, he finally looked at me. And the hall fell silent.
His gaze was steady, fathomless. I could not read what lingered there—approval, contempt, or something in between.
"Temperance," he said, his voice carrying easily to the balconies. "Do you know why you are here tonight?"
The courtiers leaned forward, their hunger sharpening. They wanted me to fail.
"To be displayed," I answered, my voice clear. "To prove that the king has taken a consort, that the covenant was not whispered in empty halls but spoken in blood."
Gasps rippled above us. Whispers. A few sharp laughs. Castiel's mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Displayed, yes. But also measured."
"Measured?"
His gaze sharpened. "The Court must see if their queen has teeth."
My chest tightened. This was not ceremony. This was a test.
"Then let them look closely," I said, though my throat was dry. "If they expect weakness, they will be disappointed."
The hall erupted into murmurs, louder this time, scandalous and intrigued. Castiel rose slowly, the throne reluctant to let him go. He descended the steps, each movement controlled, precise. When he reached me, he circled once, like a wolf testing the air around a flame.
Then, low enough for only me: "Do not fear them, Temperance. Fear only yourself."
I met his gaze. "I already do."
His eyes glimmered, unreadable, but when he turned back to the court, his voice rang out, hard as steel.
"You have your queen," he declared. "See her. Know her. And remember this night when you whisper of her strength."
The silence that followed was heavier than any applause. When the audience ended, I turned to leave. But his voice caught me, low and sure.
"You still ask why I keep you alive."
I froze. He stood above me on the dais, the shadows gathering around him like cloaks.
"Tonight," he said, his eyes fixed on mine, "they saw the answer."
The courtiers gasped, whispers surging, but I could not hear them. My pulse drowned them out, loud as a drum. For the first time since my wedding night, I did not feel invisible. I felt watched. Burned alive beneath the weight of his gaze.