The summons came at dusk, slipped under my door like a knife.
The Feast of Ashen Veins. Attendance required.
The script was silver, the wax seal marked with Castiel's sigil. I turned the parchment over once, twice, as if doing so might alter the command. It did not.
The maids had been waiting. They pulled a gown from a cedar chest as though they had known long before I did. Midnight silk, heavy with silver embroidery, the neckline traced with vines curling sharp as claws. It was beautiful, suffocating. As they tightened the bodice, I thought of snares hidden in hedgerows back home, how the trap looks harmless until it closes.
When they pinned my hair, I did not flinch. When they painted my mouth wine-dark, I did not look away from the mirror.
I would walk into their feast dressed as their queen. Even if the crown was only in name.
The Great Hall of the Feast pulsed with sound.
Music drifted from a dais at the far end, played on silver-stringed instruments whose notes shimmered too sharp for mortal ears. The air smelled of roses steeped in iron, of wax, of smoke that clung to the high banners embroidered with the Court's sigil.
Tables ran the length of the hall, laden with platters of dark fruits, sugared almonds, goblets filled not with wine but blood. Mortals moved among the tables like offerings: some dazed, some terrified, all painted with a veneer of ceremony. Nobles reached for them without looking, a hand curling around a wrist, a mouth dipping to a throat. The crowd murmured approval each time, as though it were dance, not hunger.
Every face turned when I entered. The hall stilled, whispers rising to replace the silence.
The mortal queen.
How pale she looks.
Will she faint before the salt is passed?
I kept my chin high and stepped forward.
Castiel was already seated at the head of the table, the throne-like chair carved with silver veins. He had not dressed differently for the occasion—no crown, no jewels—but the weight of him bent the hall more surely than a crown ever could.
He did not rise as I approached, but his eyes followed me, dusk-dark and unyielding. A servant pulled out the chair beside his. I sat, feeling the eyes of every noble scrape across my skin.
The Feast began.
The courtiers ate little. They drank instead. Goblets lifted, mouths red, laughter threading through the air like smoke. Conversation drifted—wars in distant provinces, the price of silver, whispered scandal about whose fledgling had bitten too soon.
Then, inevitably, it turned to me.
"She is quiet," murmured Lady Selvara from across the table, her voice carrying too easily. "Perhaps she has already learned her place."
A ripple of laughter. Lord Veynar leaned forward, pale fingers tapping the stem of his goblet. "Or perhaps she waits to be taught it."
Their eyes found me, bright and sharp. A trap disguised as courtesy.
I lifted my goblet. Its contents shimmered dark as garnet. "Perhaps," I said, my voice clear, "I wait for them to prove they are worth speaking to."
The laughter this time was sharper, scandal and surprise mingling. Selvara's smile did not falter, but her eyes gleamed. Veynar leaned back, lips curling faintly.
Castiel did not speak. He watched, silent as stone, letting the game play out. A servant appeared at my side with a fresh goblet. Not wine. Blood. Its scent rose, iron-rich, catching at the back of my throat.
"Your Majesty," Selvara said sweetly, "a toast. It would please the Court to see their queen honour our feast properly."
It was a dare. A trap with a smile stitched over it. If I refused, I would be mocked as too fragile. If I drank, I would be tainted for their amusement. The bond stirred faintly, a hum beneath my skin. Castiel's presence pressed at the edge of my thoughts, though he said nothing.
I lifted the goblet. Held it high. "To the Crimson Court," I said. "May its hunger never be stronger than its wisdom."
Then I set it down, untouched.
A beat of silence. Then gasps, murmurs, laughter rippling across the hall like fire catching at dry grass. Selvara's smile sharpened, but it was not triumph. It was something darker. Castiel's gaze flickered—approval, amusement, both?—before he turned back to his own goblet.
The feast wound on. Courtiers drifted nearer, their questions barbed with politeness.
Do mortals dream differently?
How long before your pulse weakens?
Will you bear heirs for a king who does not age?
I answered as I could. I deflected when I must. I learned the shape of their cruelty, their fascination.
And through it all, Castiel watched. He did not shield me, did not intervene, but each time I faltered, I felt the bond hum faintly, a pulse of presence steadying me. By the end, my throat ached from holding steady, my smile carved too sharp.
At last, Castiel rose.
"The feast is ended," he said. His voice carried through the hall like a blade drawn from its sheath. "You have seen your queen. Remember her."
The courtiers bowed, reluctant but obedient.
He turned to me, his voice pitched for my ears alone. "Do not mistake their silence for safety."
I met his gaze, the words spilling from my lips before I could stop them. "And do not mistake my silence for weakness."
For the first time, he smiled. A true smile, dangerous and real. And the bond between us thrummed like a vein of fire.