The gown Lysandra helped her into was a weapon of softness.
It was the color of a dove's throat, a deceptively simple sheath of silk that clung to Elara's curves before cascading to the floor. The sleeves were long and tight, the neckline high. It covered everything, yet the fabric was so thin it felt like wearing a sigh. It was humility and vulnerability disguised as elegance. A perfect costume for the human sacrifice.
Lysandra's hands were cool and efficient as she braided sections of Elara's hair, weaving in tiny, dark pearls that matched the single, somber necklace she fastened around her throat. No crown, not yet. Just a collar of polished stone.
"The King awaits you in the Moon-Spire Hall," Lysandra said, her moss-green eyes finally meeting Elara's in the mirror. Her gaze was a flat, polished lake, revealing nothing. "It would be… unwise to be late."
The message was clear: tardiness would be a sign of disrespect, a crack in her fragile position.
Elara followed the handmaiden through the silent corridors. Now, in the dim, eternal twilight of the keep, she saw more details. Faces watched from alcoves—not just curious courtiers, but creatures. A small being with skin like bark and eyes like fireflies skittered up a wall. The shadows in one corner seemed to pulse with a rhythm of their own. The air thrummed with a low, magical frequency that vibrated in her teeth.
The hunger was a restless serpent in her gut, coiling tighter with every step.
The doors to the Moon-Spire Hall were vast, carved from pale wood that glowed with its own internal light. They swung open soundlessly.
The hall was a vertical cylinder of space, its ceiling lost in a nebulous haze that mimicked a night sky. True moonlight, cold and sharp, poured from an unseen source, illuminating a long, narrow table of black wood that seemed to float on a floor of dark water. And around it, the court of the Shadow King.
The conversation died instantly. Dozens of pairs of luminous, alien eyes turned to her. The air, thick with the scent of spiced wine and night flowers, grew heavier.
Kaelen sat at the head of the table. He had changed from his armor into robes of deep charcoal, the only adornment a simple silver band on his brow. He looked less like a warrior and more like a carved monument of kingly authority. He did not smile. He merely watched her approach, a predator assessing a new element in his territory.
An empty chair waited to his right. Not beside him, but one seat down. The place of a subordinate, not an equal consort.
Elara felt every step echo in the vast silence. She kept her chin level, her eyes fixed on the back of the empty chair, refusing to be cowed by the stares that felt like physical touches—some curious, most disdainful, a few openly hostile.
She reached the chair. A Fae servant with antlers like polished jet pulled it out for her. As she sat, the soft rustle of her gown was deafening.
"You are prompt," Kaelen said, his voice carrying effortlessly in the acoustically perfect hall. "A promising start." It was not a compliment. It was a grading.
He lifted a hand, and the hall exhaled. Music resumed from unseen musicians—a haunting, stringed melody. Servants flowed forward, placing dishes before them. The food was art: translucent fruits that glowed, meats that shimmered with iridescent herbs, bread that looked woven from gold thread. It was beautiful, and it smelled of nothing she recognized. The hunger inside her recoiled from it; it wanted magic, not mortal sustenance.
"Allow me to introduce your new court," Kaelen said, his gesture encompassing the table. "To your right, Lord Theron, Master of the Wild Hunt."
The Fae to her right inclined his head. He had hair like winter wheat and eyes the yellow of a hawk's. His smile showed sharp canines. "A human queen. How… quaint. I trust you enjoy the hunt, my lady?" His tone suggested she was the prey.
"To your left," Kaelen continued, ignoring Theron's jab, "Lady Sylvyre, Keeper of the Echoes."
The woman was stunning, with hair like a cascade of liquid silver and eyes of pure white. She did not look at Elara. She stared at Kaelen with a devotion that bordered on fanaticism. "My king," she murmured, as if his name were a prayer. Her disregard for Elara was more potent than Theron's mockery.
And so it went. Kaelen named them—the Spymaster with too many fingers, the General whose armor seemed to bleed shadow, the ancient historian with bark for skin. Each one was a pinnacle of power and grace, and each one looked upon her as a stain on their perfect, ancient world.
A server placed a goblet before her. The wine within was black, with tiny, star-like points of light swirling in its depths. She reached for it, her fingers brushing the stem.
A wave of nausea hit her. Not from the wine, but from the server. He was young, perhaps half-Fae, his magic a weak, sputtering thing. But as his hand briefly neared hers, the Siphon instinct lunged. A phantom pull emanated from her core, a desperate urge to take, to quiet the hunger with that pitiful, accessible spark.
She snatched her hand back, clutching it in her lap. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Had anyone seen? She forced her gaze up.
Kaelen was watching her, a slice of glowing fruit paused halfway to his lips. His storm-silver eyes were narrowed, fixed on her trembling hand hidden beneath the table.
"The wine is not to your liking?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.
"I… am unaccustomed to such potency, Your Majesty," she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
"You will grow accustomed," he stated, his gaze lingering on her face, searching. "To many things."
The meal was an exquisite torture. She mimicked the others, taking tiny bites of food that tasted like ash on her tongue. She listened to conversations that flowed around her like water, full of cryptic references to border skirmishes, ley-line fluctuations, and "the deepening silence from the Crystal Glades." They spoke a language of power and politics she only half-understood, and they made no effort to include her.
Then, Lord Theron leaned forward, his yellow eyes gleaming. "So, my liege. This… alliance. The human villages along the border have been restless. Their woodcutters encroach on the singing forests. Does your new… arrangement… signal a change in our policy of containment? Shall we now show them mercy?" He said 'mercy' like it was a disease.
All eyes turned to Kaelen, then to her. This was the first test.
Kaelen took a slow sip of his starry wine. "Mercy is a luxury born of security. The blight shows our security is an illusion. My marriage secures a temporary peace. It does not alter the fundamental law: mortals are forbidden from crossing the Veil. Any who do will still be dealt with by the Hunt." His eyes flicked to Theron. "Your Hunt."
Theron's smile widened. "Of course, Your Majesty." He looked at Elara, his gaze crawling over her. "I shall ensure the Queen's former neighbors understand the… permanence… of our borders."
It was a threat, veiled in protocol. A promise that her sacrifice might not spare her people from the usual Fae cruelties.
Anger, hot and bright, cut through Elara's fear. She found her voice, low but clear in the hushed hall. "And what of the blight that originated from your side of the Veil, my lord? Does your Hunt also deal with threats that flow into our lands?"
The silence that fell this time was absolute and frozen. Theron's smile vanished. Lady Sylvyre's white eyes finally slid to her, wide with shock. A few courtiers inhaled sharply.
Elara held Theron's furious gaze, her heart a drum in her throat. She had just broken an unspoken rule: she had spoken back.
Kaelen set his goblet down. The click on the table was like a stone dropping into a well.
"An interesting point," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. His gaze was a physical weight on her. "One that presumes knowledge of the blight's origin. A presumption, wife, that you would do well to avoid until you have proof."
He had not defended her. He had chastised her, publicly and coldly, while also subtly reminding everyone—and her—that she was still a suspect.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of subdued murmurs and piercing stares. When Kaelen finally rose, signaling the end, Elara's legs were weak with tension.
He walked around the table to her chair. He offered his arm, a gesture of cold protocol. As she took it, her fingers on his forearm, the now-familiar jolt of awareness shot through her. But this time, his power didn't just call to her hunger. It felt like a cage of thrumming energy, a warning.
"You have a fire in you, little witch," he murmured, his voice for her alone as he led her from the silent, watching hall. "In this court, fire either forges a weapon… or draws every predator in the shadows to warm themselves by it. Choose which you will be very carefully."
Back in her locked chamber, the mask crumbled. She slumped against the door, the elegant gown feeling like a shroud. She had survived the first trial, but she had also exposed her neck. She had angered a powerful lord, drawn the direct ire of the king's most devoted follower, and nearly lost control of her power in front of everyone.
Worst of all, Kaelen's final words echoed in her mind. He wasn't just observing her. He was testing her mettle, poking the caged animal to see if it would bite.
And the terrifying part, the part that kept her awake staring at the false stars outside her window, was the realization that she wanted to bite.