We round the final bend in the hall, and I slow my steps as we reach the set of dark-brown double doors carved from the local western hemlock. The veined with silver from the ward I imbued come to life with my approach. I extend a hand toward them, magic responding instinctively to my touch as the locks release with a muted hiss.
“I prepared these chambers for you the first night I returned to court after meeting you,” I say evenly, my voice lower than intended. “Something told me you’d find your way here…eventually.”
The doors ease open, revealing the roomwithin.
The chamber is large, circular in shape, with a domed ceiling painted in enchanted starlight that shifts subtly with the real sky. The bed is raised on a low platform, draped in layers of navy velvet and silver-threaded linens. A balcony curves along one wall behind glass-paned doors, and from there, the snow-drenched mountain peaks loom.
She steps inside slowly, her gaze sweeping the space. Her shoulders remain tight and her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’s restless.
I stay in the doorway, watching her with a calm I do not feel.
This was meant to be a gesture of hospitality. Perhaps something more, though I’ve never admitted it aloud. I don’t decorate rooms for guests. I don’t have the patience or the inclination. But this room…this one I saw in my mind the night I returned from the wraith lands, with her in mind.
I expected to find satisfaction in finally bringing her here. Instead, I find unease.
She pauses just in front of the balcony doors, one hand lifting to rest lightly against the frost-glazed glass, and I speak before I can stop myself.
“You’re unusually quiet,” I say, tone careful. “Are you feeling well?”
She doesn’t answer, and for a split-second I can’t help but wonder if swaying her to come here was the wrong decision. This isn’t the version of her thatdraws me. The quiet strength that flashes in her narrowed gaze. The dry wit to her words when she disagrees with any of us.
Here in my castle, she seems like a ghost of that Wren.
Just as I turn to go, her voice stops me.
“Thank you, Sylvin.”
I glance back and find her watching me, her gaze less distant, like some small part of her wanted to be sure I heard that softness before I left.
I incline my head in answer, then step through the doorway, pulling it closed behind me.
The door clicks shut, sealing the space between us.
Despite that glimpse of softness, the weight of her silence follows me down the hall like a shadow I can’t shake.
The war room is waiting for me when I arrive, cast in low light and silence.
The doors part at my approach, pushed open by magic, and the moment I step through them, every man and woman around the table rises to their feet.
Their postures are sharp and respectful, lowering their heads as I pass by them.
Maps are scattered across the wide table in the center, glowing faintly with tracking enchantments that trace the faction's borders and all of the other kings’ movements–and Wren’s– in real time.
Not only did I have my general from the SpringCourt create that building for our meeting, but I had them build a tracking spell into the ground beneath it, for all who stepped foot there. Distrust runs deeply between the magical factions, and they won’t believe me if I tell them I did it to track them for safety purposes. Therefore, I’m in no rush to tell any of them about my little trick.
I cross the room with measured steps, every gaze tracking my approach, and take my place at the head of the table without acknowledging the weight of their attention. Only once I’ve settled my hands on the edge of the table, fingers splayed, do I nod. “At ease, generals.”
Chairs scrape quietly as they lower themselves into place again.
The cold hums through the floor, through my skin, through the magic curling low in my veins. I let it anchor me. I need clarity and focus now, but my thoughts keep drifting to the woman I left behind in the frost-lit hall, especially when I can see her pacing on the map.
Each of the four barons seated before me represents one of the seasonal courts–Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn. They wear different colors beneath their cloaks and hold different scents in the air around them–sun-warmed citrus from Summer, dewy-moss from Spring, dry spice from Autumn–that signal their born courts.
But here, in my court, they move in sync as my generals.
They serve as conduits between me and the courts they belong to, and their loyalty is a thing I demand without apology.
My eyes track across them, settled in the respect I see shining in their eyes as they meet my gaze unflinchingly. They answer to the duke or duchess that presides over each court, who in turn, answer to me, the High King of all fae.
