“Driftspire,” she says casually, and my head snaps toward her.
“You know Driftspire?”
“The floating city of House Ithranor. Yes, I have heard of it. But if you’re about to ask where it is, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“The mirror will tell me,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You desire the city that much?”
“I desire only what the city has stolen from me.”
My gaze flicks again to the scrying mirror, restless, impatient to rid myself of this conversation and claim my moment with the tarnished window to the unseen.
“It may show you what you seek,” Marlayna murmurs, reclining against the chaise with the sinuous grace of a cat in sunlight. She crosses her legs, revealing a flash of smooth thigh. I make a point of not noticing. “But you know scrying mirrors are fickle things. They unveil not only what you desire… they expose what you fear.”
“It is a risk I am willing to take,” I say.
“It must be a great treasure indeed you’ve been robbed of.”
I offer no further details. It’s blessing enough that she seems unaware of all that has transpired.
“Very well.” She exhales as if she’s already won the game. “Keep to your bargain, and the scrying mirror is yours to use as you will.”
I tip my head toward the six or seven Fae still gathered around the mirror, their expressions rapt with awe or horror.
“Did they bargain with you as well?”
Marlayna hums, thoughtful. “No. They use it freely. But they have nothing I want.”
I draw a slow, measured breath, reminding myself, forcing myself, to remember that while Marlayna’s slender neck would be so very easy to snap, that is not the path I have chosen. Not tonight. Instead, I pick up the goblet and throw back the wine, letting it sear its way down my throat before handing the empty goblet to a hovering servant.
“Then why waste time with this meaningless chatter?” I say, rough as gravel. “Where is your bedchamber, my lady?”
I can practically feel her blood run hot through her veins, her breath hitching as much from surprise as anticipation. She hastily drains the last of her wine, though in her eagerness, most of it dribbles down her chin. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, ignoring the stain it leaves against her skin, and shoves her goblet into the waiting hands of another servant.
“Follow me,” she says, her voice slurred from the wine or her nerves, or a little of both.
She waves off her guards with a flick of her wrist and strides toward the exit. I fall into step behind her, feeling the weight of a dozen curious eyes on me. Reon and Zyphoro are among them, their brows arched in pointed intrigue. But I do not stop.
Marlayna extends a hand behind her, fingers curling, searching for mine.
I have held back armies. Fought through waves of enemies with nothing but my fists until my knuckles split and my arms went numb. I have walked through fire, through ruin, through the jaws of beasts that would tear lesser creatures apart.
And yet none of it, not a single battle, has ever required the strength it takes to lace my fingers through hers and make her believe it is what I want.
Marlayna leads me down the corridor in silence, her footsteps a steady staccato against the wood, echoing the hollow thud of my own heartbeat. We pass so many doors I lose count, the hush between us stretching taut. At last, she halts and at her unspoken command, the double doors glide open, revealing a chamber draped in quiet opulence.
Midnight-blue marble glistens beneath the flickering sconces, their golden light catching in the gossamer drapes that whisper with the night breeze. A grand hearth of black stone commands one wall, its fire casting long, shifting shadows over low tables scattered with scrolls and half-filled inkwells, plans and sketches sprawled in careful disorder.
House Taramethos has always been a house of builders, of visionaries who shape the world with steady hands and restless minds. Even here in Ballamar, far from their ancestral seat, that legacy endures.
But for all the intrigue scattered across those tables, my attention is pulled inexorably to the massive bed that looms at the center of it all, its dark silks rippling in the breeze like the surface of some deep, unknowable sea. It is a stark reminder of why I am here, of the role I must play.
I do not have the luxury of distraction.
Marlayna moves with the confidence of a female who has never once doubted her own allure. She turns her back to me, not so subtly nudging my groin with the curve of her ass. Then, with a sweep of her hand, she drapes her hair over one shoulder, revealing the neat row of buttons running down the back of her gown.
“Would you?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth.
