The wind shifts and I catch the distant sound of laughter and music floating toward us.
We round a bend in the path, and two fae step out from behind a flowering archway. Neither bows, despite Sylvin being the High King.
One speaks in a singsong voice, barely glancing at him before acknowledging me. “The Duke is waiting.”
Sylvin nods once, but there’s tension in his jaw that isn’t usually present. Something about that makes me go on slight alert.
We walk on, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the petal-laced path. The court opens with wide stone steps leading into a tiered garden amphitheater that bursts with life. Dozens of fae line the steps and balconies, draped in silk and pressed floral armor. They watch us descend and some whisper behind fans, while others smile too widely, their lips stained with reds and purples.
At the far end of the garden court, lounging in a curved seat made of sculpted gold and twisting lilac branches, sits the Duke of Spring.
He’s radiant.
His hair falls in golden waves down his shoulders, glinting in the sunlight like spun honey, and his skin glows like the sun itself lives within him. His smile is easy and indulgent, but his vibrant green eyes show the calculation within.
“Ah,” the Duke purrs, voice like warm wine. “TheHigh King of Winter…bringing me a gift. How generous.”
I stiffen, but Sylvin doesn’t so much as twitch.
“This is Wren,” he says flatly. “And she is not yours.”
The Duke laughs, soft and rich. “So territorial, Sylvin. I thought you came to share.”
Anger flares within me and I side-eye Sylvin.
What exactly did he tell the Duke?
“We came to find answers and you know that,” Sylvin politely disagrees with a tight smile. “Despite what you’re making it sound like now, for the sake of entertainment and her discomfort.”
Instantly I deflate and remember I can’t take anything the fae say at face value. Sylvin told me the first day I met him that they are masters of manipulation, and I still fell right into that trap.
The Duke’s gaze slides to me, slow and deliberate. He takes his time scanning from my face to my throat, then lower.
I barely suppress the shiver of disgust rolling through me under his perusal.
“So,” he says, dragging the syllable out. “You’re the little wild thing who is trying to find a home.”
I don't let him bait me into answering, and Sylvin moves slightly closer to me, showing silent support.
“We’ve arranged a test,” the Duke says, alreadywaving a hand toward the center of the court. “A simple one to see if she’s ours.”
“Even if she is of Spring, she is no one’s, besides herself,” Sylvin says coolly, “and this was supposed to be a private test, not a spectacle.”
The Duke laughs again, tipping his head back, and the court chuckles with him, like an oddly rehearsed chorus.
“Everything we do here is for entertainment,” he hums, rising from his throne. His robes rustle as he walks toward a raised stone pedestal in the garden’s center. It’s ringed in soft moss, and atop it sits a shallow bowl of soil.
“Wren,” he calls, motioning for me to approach. “Come and place your hands in the soil of our court–it is imbued with magic waiting to be commanded. Speak your name and will something to bloom.”
My heart beats hard in my ribs, not from fear of failure, but from howwrongthis feels.
I glance at Sylvin.
His jaw is clenched, but he nods once, not commanding me forward but offering his support with the movement.
So I step forward. The second I touch the soil, I breathe in slowly, letting my fingers rest in the warmth for a moment. I reach for the magic and will a lily to sprout, but there’s no hum and no flicker of recognition…just silence.
I withdraw my hands and let them hang dirty at my sides, proof of my failure and with nothing to wipe them on.
