36. Tonight, We Celebrate

thirty-six

Tonight, We Celebrate

Alessia

Q ueen Wyetta is a horrid woman, and I should hate her palace by default, but it’s so darn beautiful. On top of that, everyone is welcoming. All the guards wave and smile rather than standing rigid or stern. The clothing is incredibly vibrant, and the people are so lively. The ballroom isn’t as massive as some of the fae’s, but it’s equally beautiful. Mahogany tables boast an assortment of miniature foods—cupcakes, sandwiches, crackers, and more—and a bar stands beside it, with a butler serving drinks to waiting patrons.

Musicians play live music on a dais in the front of the room. Soft string music floats through the room, mingling with the excited chatter. A space for dancing is cleared in the middle of the space, the pale flooring outlined by ebony tiles. People twirl and dance within it. Unlike the fae, who cheer and move fluidly with reckless abandon, the dancers’ movements are all the same. They move in tandem, following the same few steps over and over. I pause, tugging Rainer’s hand and forcing him to stop on the outskirts of the space so we can watch the dancers.

A few more couples join in, and soon, the space is filled. The songs change, but the dance steps don’t.

“How unappealing,” Rainer mutters lowly in my ear.

Chuckling, I playfully swat his chest. “It’s not that bad.”

It’s worse because it’s fake .

The comment from within me comes so suddenly that it catches me off guard. My shadow-self has been enjoyably quiet lately.

At least we—the fae—are honest about what we are.

This time, I take in the space with new eyes. Underneath the smiles and polite chatter, I see these people for what they are—supporters of Queen Wyetta and the Trade. My shadow is right. All the beauty is nothing more than a perfume hiding the truly horrid stench of humanity.

The dance moves are too stiff, the smiles too forced, and when I really pay attention, I notice how noses are upturned. No one seems like they’re genuinely having fun.

Yet they all pretend.

They imprison and sell people of all ages—to the mines, the brothels, the rich . Hell, most of these people look rich enough to own their own Tradelings.

My skin blazes as a fire rips through me. I close my eyes and take in a few deep breaths.

I don’t want to make a scene here. I have to stay calm—keep my shadow-self contained. We traveled all this way to hear Wyetta’s news, and we still need to head to Illynor for the iron after. That is the main reason we’re here, after all. There’s much left to do, and I can’t let my emotions and unchecked shadow-rage ruin that.

When I reopen my eyes, I scan the room until my attention snags on a broad form by the snack table. Immediately, I recognize the bright yellow suit and the dark hair tied into a neat low bun. The sight of my familiar friend eases my budding rage.

“There’s Ken,” I say, tugging Rainer toward the table.

We stride through the room, and suddenly, Rainer growls and jerks me to a stop. I whip my head toward him. His lips pull back into a snarl, and his eyes narrow lethally. I follow his gaze to find a young man standing a few steps away, and his eyes drop down my body, then pop back up to my face. He must notice Rainer immediately because his cheeks turn red, and he hurries away.

A laugh bursts from me. “Did you just growl at that man?”

Rainer shrugs, looking displeased. “He was looking a little too long at something that doesn’t belong to him.”

“You are incorrigible.” I shake my head.

He grips my hand, quickly twirling me around smoothly until my back is pressed to his front. His arms wrap around me, locking me in place against him. He surprises me by swaying us gently to the music.

His breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “I will be anything so long as I’m yours .”

I shiver.

“Cold?” he asks, amusement lacing his tone.

I nudge him with my shoulder. He releases me, and I spin to face him. “Not at all.”

“Shame.” He grins slightly. “If you were cold, I’d have a reason to keep my arms around you.”

“You are rather sly this evening.” I chuckle. “You never need a reason for that.”

He arches a brow, leaning in. “Are you granting me permanent permission to touch you?”

I shudder at the hidden promise in his words, and his smile blossoms in satisfaction. His dimple appears, sending a flurry of excitement through my stomach .

“Always,” I whisper.

He wraps an arm around my midsection, tugging me against him again. The material of my dress is thin, and I plaster myself against him, delighting in the rough, erotic feel of his body, even amidst a crowd of people.

“Gods.” He cups the back of my head. “You are the most stunning being I have ever laid eyes on.”

My cheeks heat. I wouldn’t consider myself shy, but Rainer has a way of continuously lighting the fire in my soul.

“Come on, mo róisín,” he says, smirking. “Let’s go see Kenisius before we get ourselves into trouble.”

I reach up, fingering the soft, round edge of his ear. I miss his ethereal fae ears. It’s strange seeing him without a piece of himself. In response, his thumb skates down my left cheek, where my Tradeling mark should be.

He releases me with a disappointed groan, gripping my hand and taking me toward Ken.

The bear shifter stands with his back to us, shoveling tiny muffins into his mouth with one hand, and gripping an overfilled glass of wine with the other.

“Oh! Hello,” he says through a mouthful of food when he spots us beside him. Crumbs topple onto his shirt. His long, curly hair is loose around his shoulders tonight, making him appear slightly softer and more handsome than usual.

“Hi, Ken,” I say, delighted to see him.

He holds up his glass. “This wine is shite compared to—”

A gasp rings out from a woman beside him. Ken smiles at her. Her eyes drop to the crumbs in his beard, and she smacks her lips in disdain. Then, she quickly scurries away .

Ken shrugs. “The cakes are good, though.” He offers us one. “Want?”

Rainer sighs, his expression flat. But despite what his face shows, deep down, I know he loves Ken and his shenanigans.

“I’m good,” I say, waving Ken’s treats off.

Not too far away, I spot Tynan. He busies himself with a group of women, leaning casually against the wall. His mouth moves rapidly, his expression an arrogant backdrop for whatever ridiculous story he’s sharing. They eat it up, leaning in closer to the brute male.

A trumpet blares, and I jump. It renders the string quartet silent, and the chatter swiftly ceases.

“Your attention, please!” A voice bellows through the room. “Her Majesty, Queen Wyetta, Heiress and Sovereign of the Wessex Peninsula, graces us with her presence!”

Guests bow their heads in rapid succession, everyone conveying respect. I quickly follow suit, not wanting to stand out. Rainer huffs under his breath, but he slowly tilts his head down. Loud chewing from Ken snags my attention from my other side. I step closer to him and quickly bring my heel down on his toes, causing him to gulp. He tosses his snack on the table and falls in line—copying us.

The thunder of shoes on tile echoes through the room in a rhythmic cadence. The people stay quiet. I peek through my lashes, catching sight of a small entourage leading what must be the queen to the raised dais where the musicians were previously.

When the nobles begin lifting their heads and clapping politely, we do the same .

The sight of Queen Wyetta catches me off guard. Unlike the fae queen, Yvanthia, who exuded power and wisdom even when she was sick, the human queen is a frail thing. Her bony frame drowns in a cerulean gown, and her face is gaunt and tired. She’s not necessarily wrinkly, but her face and neck sag like slabs of raw chicken. A halo of wispy, white curls frames her pink complexion. Her gilded crown sits awkwardly atop her as if it’s too heavy for her fragile bones to hold up.

“My loyal subjects,” she rasps, lifting a trembling hand. The room sucks in a collective inhale, as if we’re all holding our breaths and straining to listen together. “I thank you for gathering before me today—”

Loud chewing reaches my ears again, and I turn to Ken. “Hush!”

He shoves the remaining sandwich into his mouth, swallowing it whole. Then, he raises his hands and shrugs.

I can’t help but chuckle. My attention shifts back to the queen, but I’ve missed what she said. The people around us murmur excitedly. Rainer watches with rapt attention, his mouth tightening into a stern line. His hand tightens around mine, and I pat him gently until he releases it. He flashes me a look of apology, then turns his glare back toward the queen. It takes two guards on either side of her to lower her onto her throne.

Another blare of the trumpet has me wincing. Once the room is silenced again, one of the guards beside the queen stands tall with his hands clasped behind his back. He tilts his chin up and clears his throat dramatically.

“Your sacrifices—paying increased taxes, offering your young to the Trade, and supporting the army—” a whoop rings out, and the guard raises his hand to silence the crowd again. “Thanks to your many sacrifices,” he repeats, “we have a new advantage over our beastly adversaries.”

Two other guards lift a floral-covered lump onto the dais behind the queen. When Wyetta turns to them—painfully slowly—and nods, they reach up and tug the covering away.

“The diligent labor of our forge has yielded a formidable collection of weaponry, now enhanced with iron,” the guard says. “They’ve been coming to our realm, stealing our babes, feckin’ our wives, and killin’ us. Now, we return the favor!”

Cheers erupt in the room, the roar deafening.

I lean toward Rainer to ask him what the hell the humans are talking about, but his jaw is tense as he stares straight ahead. I follow his gaze, squinting at the dais as I try to understand what I’m seeing.

Weapons hang on display, a variety of blades and swords. Some are long and thin, some are curved like a farmer’s scythe, and some are as small as a steak knife. They’re all matte black, as if absorbing the light instead of reflecting it.

I glance around the crowd, gauging the response—various expressions of excitement and intrigue light up the faces around me. Ken stands by the snack table still, his hands empty and his mouth agape.

“We will win this war,” someone yells, drawing my attention. They pump a fist into the air, and the people around them clap.

Wyetta is lying to them—telling them we’re at war to garner support?

Is that why she’s sending prisoners across the Gleam? To blame us for attacking when we send them back dead? Meanwhile, she’s keeping her real army down here—safe and preparing for a battle with iron .

“What’re those weapons for?” I ask Rainer slowly, even though I already know the answer. Fear trickles down my spine.

I need to hear him say it.

“She’s declaring war on the fae of Avylon,” he says through gritted teeth. The look he casts me is full of shadowy anger.

The speaking guard strides to the weapons, pulling a dagger free and holding it over his head. The hilt is carved like a wave, curling at the end. “Iron has a detrimental effect on their magic, impairing their abilities in combat. With significant damage, it has the potential to cause fatal harm!”

The crowd oohs at the show as if it’s the most magnificent thing they’ve ever seen. Nausea roils in my stomach.

“We march north to the Gleam soon!” The guard pauses for dramatic effect as the crowd roars to life. When they quiet down long enough, he yells, with a disturbing smile, “But for tonight, we celebrate!”