Chapter 3

Chapter 3

T he address on her assignation was one Fey recognized, though she made a point of avoiding it. The Eternal Crown bar was a favorite among the Queen's generals and the lower nobility, thanks to its proximity to the palace itself. The interior had even been designed to mimic the aesthetics of the throne room—white marble, gold trim, and dark red accents. But the gold trim was painted on and noticeably flaking off from wear, and the red privacy curtains were thin, threadbare material and nothing like the thick, luxurious velvet found throughout the palace.

Most of the patrons of The Eternal Crown bar were unlikely to have ever set foot inside the throne room, and thus unlikely to notice what a mockery this place was.

Everything about the bar rubbed Fey the wrong way. The drinks were overpriced and underpoured, and the pretentious decorations were a far cry from the palace interior they sought to copy. It was a poor man's facsimile of luxury.

Fey didn't wear her Blade's uniform, not for this assignment. This was a simple fact-finding mission, with Fey serving as little more than an unbiased eavesdropper. She would be better served blending in. So, she made do with a pair of light linen pants and a long-sleeved shirt that clung to her curves and muscles. The sleeves covered her sigils and Blade's mark, but even still she engaged the spell that kept them hidden, that fooled an observer into seeing only pale, unmarred skin. Fey wore her red hair down and reluctantly let Joy apply just the faintest hint of makeup to her face.

To the patrons of The Eternal Crown, she looked like an unassuming recruit, eager to soak up the atmosphere in a popular bar sure to be crawling with potential suitors. She looked like she belonged.

Lord Alexander Cyanean was already there when she arrived, nestled in a corner table near the bar with a group of lesser nobility. She recognized a few of them from the Princess's party, but most were of such low consequence they wouldn't have merited an invite.

Fey positioned herself at the bar, close enough to overhear their conversation but hidden from their sight by the garish red privacy curtains hung with little rhyme or reason around the place. She ordered a seltzer from the bartender and waited.

There is an art to this sort of assignation, and it requires patience and focus. Of the three of them, Joy was best suited for this sort of work. Not only could she blend into any situation, moving flawlessly between different personalities she had cultivated for just this sort of thing, but she had an aura about her that made her easy to trust.

Joy didn't need to interrogate her assignations—they spilled their secrets to her willingly. And when she'd pulled every scrap of information she needed from them, when they served their purpose, she happily helped them spill their blood as well.

But Joy worked best in a close, one-on-one environment, where she could develop that trust and convince them to open up to her. This assignation was different. A name and an address, a public space, meant someone had tipped Dameon off. It meant this was a trap, and all that was required of Fey was to sit and observe. Watch, listen, and report back to Dameon what she heard.

Lord Cyanean and his friends were just as boring as she feared. They spoke of trade, travels, and trivialities, and it was a trial to pay close attention to their conversation, especially after such a long day. But if Lord Cyanean had been accused of something untoward, if it was known he would be here in this bar tonight, it was likely one of the patrons drinking with him had been the one to report him to the Crown. They would be looking to lead the conversation, to set a trap for Alexander Cyanean to walk right into.

Fey sipped her drink and waited.

The men talked and gossiped, and Fey was starting her second drink by the time they said anything of consequence. After ordering another round, and pouring drinks for all at the table, someone said loudly, "To the Queen!"

The sound of glasses clinking, and comradery.

"To the Princess!" said another voice. And this time the murmuring was subdued, less enthusiastic.

"I heard deSanguine made an appearance tonight," someone said.

A few of the men chuckled.

"Oh, you know how the Fallen King is," another voice answered. "He can't help but to make a scene. The Queen nearly set her Blades on him, from what I could see."

"I'm shocked she didn't."

"DeSanguine is harmless. He's too frightened of the Queen to make too much of a nuisance of himself. He'll never make a move while Edelin sits on the throne."

Murmurs of assent and agreement followed. And then, after a brief pause, a dark voice.

"And what will happen when Edelin no longer sits on the throne?"

Fey paused her drink at her lips. A few of the men murmured.

"Cluck your tongues and shake your heads all you want, but Edelin will step down from the throne, eventually."

"And Princess Amalia?—"

"Amalia is no Princess of mine."

That was Lord Cyanean's voice. Now, it was getting interesting.

The bartender set a drink in front of her, momentarily pulling Fey's attention away from the conversation.

"I didn't order this," Fey said, staring at the drink.

"Vodka soda. From the gentleman," he grunted in response. He nodded toward someone at the other end of the bar, but Fey didn't bother to look. She thanked him, picked up the drink, and pointedly set it as far away from her on the bar top as possible .

"Come now, Alex," someone at Lord Cyanean's table was saying, but he was interrupted.

"The girl has the mere shadow of her mother's strength," Cyanean said, speaking over the other man. "My connections in the palace say she's not even a true heir…"

Murmurs, some angry. Some intrigued. All dangerous, traitorous.

"He's right. I've heard she can't move Earth," someone said, their voice quiet and frightened. "And in the others? Well… the Princess barely has the power to command three elements."

A man appeared at Fey's shoulder, tapping the bar in front of her. He stood over her, encroaching on her space, his presence demanding attention.

Well, well, well. This must be Mr. Vodka Soda.

"Hey," the man said. He was blond and thick-shouldered, and to Fey he looked indistinguishable from every other soldier in the bar. Handsome, but with the undeserved swagger of someone used to getting what they want. "I saw you over here all alone and thought you could use some company."

"Fuck off," Fey answered, taking a sip of her drink.

He laughed. "It's okay, I get it. The tough girl act. You're a recruit, right?" When Fey didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge the question, he kept going. "I figured since I haven't seen you here before."

He sat, uninvited, at the bar next to her, but Fey wasn't paying him any attention. Cyanean was still talking, and she tuned out the soldier to listen.

"What do you think the other Factions are going to do, when a Queen without all four powers takes over? When the line blessed by the Goddess herself finally breaks?"

"Come on, Alex, power isn't the same as it was 300 years ago. Witches aren't as strong as they used to be. Maybe it's unreasonable to expect the line of the First Queen to be as strong as it once was, huh?"

Murmurs of agreement.

Murmurs of dissent.

"Do you have a sigil yet?"

Fey blinked. Vodka soda was still talking—hadn't stopped talking, she realized .

"I do," He answered himself, rolling up his sleeve and showing off the raised scar of a tattoo on his inner wrist. Fey recognized it immediately—the sigil for strength.

She did have the same sigil, on her wrist. Had four others, as well, tattooed up and down her arms. Only Dameon and the other Queen's Blades were gifted so many and were allowed to hold so much power. Dameon, the Blades, and the Queen herself.

"I'm going to be a general," Vodka-soda was saying, leaning towards her conspiratorially. "You don't get your first sigil until you get promoted out of the lower ranks. But, hey, I know it's tough when you're first starting, so don't stress, okay? I can help you out, you know, show you the ropes. I can be good for you, so good. If you're good to me." His hand hovered over her knee, as though trying to decide if he was going to touch her.

"I said fuck off," Fey repeated, tuning him out and focusing on her assignation. He was like an annoying insect buzzing around her.

"The Queen could always have another heir," someone at the table was saying.

"At her age?" A cruel laugh. "No, that well is tapped. We got two potential heirs, and if the rumors are true, neither was Goddess blessed with all four elements. "

Two heirs?

"How do you think the realm will take it when Amalia is crowned?" Cyanean was saying. "Even if they hide it, even if they keep everyone convinced she can control all four elements, do you think her children will carry all four? The royal line holds the crown because they are Goddess blessed. How do you think the Fallen will react to a Queen who can't claim that blessing?"

"You're beautiful, you know," Vodka-soda said, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat from his alcohol-heavy breath on her cheek. "Your hair… I've never seen such a dark red before."

He reached his hand up to touch her, and Fey's temper snapped. She snatched his hand out of the air, squeezing his fingers painfully.

"Don't fucking touch me," she snapped, releasing his hand as quickly as she'd grabbed it. He hissed in pain and anger, but Fey was straining to hear the rest, straining to make out the other at the table. Could she recognize them later? Put a face and a name to the voices?

Vodka-soda's face was twisted in rage, all that helpful sardonic pleasantry gone in an instant. "Look, I was just trying to be nice," he snarled. He cradled his hand against his chest. "I'm offering to help you, okay? And don't act so fucking innocent, you know what you're doing, coming to a bar and peacocking like this. You're practically begging for someone to come chat you up, but you don't have to be such a bitch about?—"

He didn't have time to finish that thought before Fey grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face against the edge of the bar. He screamed, his hands muffling the sound as blood slipped from his mouth and through his fingers.

But Fey was already gone, slipping out the bar door and into the streets. She had all the information Dameon would need to label Lord Cyanean a traitor to the Crown.

And the next time Lord Cyanean's name would be delivered to her in a black envelope, she knew it would be written in red.