Your Radiant Queen Maireth.
His blood turns to ice,a chill snaking up his spine and wrapping around his throat like a godsdamned noose.
“Well?” Rhaema snaps gruffly, but Kael notices the edge of desperation there.
“She knows we’re here?—”
“Obviously, you daft boy. What else?” Rhaema condescends.
“She’s asked for our attendance at tonight’s Masked Ball at Azhareth Castle,” Kael says, but the words come out strained, raw.
Elyssara nods, taking in the information and trying to wield it into something they can use. A weapon.
But Rhaema’s impatient grumble cuts through the moment. “It’s not an invitation, Kael. She’s not asking—Maireth never does. It is a command.”
The words hang in the humid air like they might choke him.
Fuck.
They’ve been revealed too soon. Too easily.
Though it’s not surprising—Maireth has built a culture rewarded for surveilling their neighbors, their friends, their family. Reporting their behaviors in exchange for the queen’s favor. In a kingdom built on reward for obedience, it is almost impossible to stay hidden. Maireth deals favors as currency.
Or, in her words:comply or die.
“It’s okay,” Elyssara murmurs, mind whirring with ideas, strategies, tactics. Kael can see it in the distant glaze in her eyes. “We need to scope the castle, anyway. We need to loosen lips and have secrets spilled. We need confirmation of the Orbs in the vault. We need intel on security. We can get all of that by walking straight through the front gates,” she says, though her words still feel uncertain.
Rhaema sucks her teeth. “You don’t know Maireth, Elyssara. She’s ruthless. Built a dynasty on being ten steps ahead. There’s a reason you’re going tonight, and it’s got nothing to do with Kael’s bloodline.” She pauses, eyes boring into Elyssara with intensity. Then, “It’s aboutyou.”
Elyssara’s breath catches in her throat.
“You’re not in control. You’ll go in with an agenda, but Maireth will already have ten others that you’ll never decipher,” Rhaema says gravely, her voice almost defeated.
Elyssara doesn’t speak. Just stares at the old woman—taking her in.
Kael growls in irritation. “Not fucking helping, Rhaema.”
Rhaema shrugs. “I’m preparing her, Kael. She needs to know what she’s walking into.”
Kael pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking in a long, sharp inhale. “Start planning our costumes, Rhae. El and I have plans to make that don’t include giving up.”
Rhaema spins on her heel, hobbling away with a cane in her left hand. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” she shouts over her shoulder.
But Kael knows nothing Rhaema says can possibly prepare Elyssara for what’s coming.
He turns to face her, but he doesn’t find defeat or fear. He finds fire. The kind of eyes a queen wears.
But behind the strong exterior, her words falter. “I feel like I’m being thrown to the wolves, Kael.”
He reaches for her, pulling her into his chest with a force that could rattle the Stars. And his voice drops into an unwavering promise. “No one is throwing you to the wolves, my love. You’ll walk into the wolf’s mouth by choice,” he growls, sucking in a ragged breath. “And you’ll leave wearing its skin.”
Gooseflesh ripples across her skin at his words, and resolve flickers down the tether.
Good.
She needs to walk unflinchingly. Defiant. Powerful.
Everything he already knows she is.
