Megan grips the lid of the box and pulls it away.
The indigo silk spills over the edges, catching the dim light, the heavy silver thread of the Thosti crest gleaming against the dark fabric. Beneath the gown rests a pair of soft, black leather slippers. It is opulent, suffocating, and fiercely beautiful.
She runs her hand over the silk, her jaw setting into a stubborn, sharp line.
"If I hide in this room, Kryven wins the tally." The defiance radiating from her skin burns the remaining oxygen in the room. "I did not survive the streets to cower in a golden cage."
The tension in my chest splinters into a profound, suffocating ache. I do not touch her, though the urge to drag my knuckles across the soft curve of her cheek nearly paralyzes my discipline.
The sheer, devastating weight of her intellect shatters my logic.
"Dress quickly." The command tears from my throat, raw and fractured. "The carriage awaits."
When she emerges from the suite a short time later, the transformation is staggering. The silk clings to her petite frame, tailored to emphasize the delicate, fragile lines of her body, yet the thick silver crest of my house anchors her to Protheka. The maids have pinned curls away from her face, exposing the bruised skin of her throat—a stark, unhidden reminder of the violence she survived.
She looks like a mortal offering wrapped in the wealth of a god.
I offer her my arm. Her small hand wraps around the dense leather of my forearm, the contact a searing brand that grounds the chaotic static of my magic.
We walk together through the cavernous foyer, past the stunned, silent ranks of my elite Miou guards, and out into the biting chill of the Undercity night. I hand her into the reinforced carriage, the iron doors sealing us within the velvet-lined gloom.
The wheels grind against the stone, carrying us toward the towering spires of the High Assembly.
I look at the human sitting across from me, her back straight, her eyes completely devoid of fear. I am bringing a spark of the surface directly into the darkest, most lethal hall in Protheka.
7
MEGAN
The grand double doors of the Undercity assembly hall groan open. A wave of heat, spiced wine, and the suffocating pressure of Khuzuth magic crashes over me.
I step over the threshold, my fingers tightening against the thick leather of Zhetrin’s forearm. Our physical discrepancy commands the space. He towers over seven feet tall, a monolith of cold violence eclipsing the ambient light of the floating alchemy lamps. Beside him, the fabric clings to my five-foot-three frame, the silver crest of his bloodline pulling taut across my collarbone.
Obsidian pillars anchor the sprawling banquet hall, stretching toward a domed ceiling lost in shadows. Burnt cedar and predatory ambition coat my tongue. The moment the alchemy light catches my bare skin, the low hum of conversation dies.
The silence fractures, replaced by the sharp rustle of silk and the biting hiss of deliberate whispers. Hundreds of immortal faces, pale as bone, snap toward us. The physical weight of their collective disgust presses against my chest, a barrage of plum, ruby, and glass-colored hostility.
I tip my chin up, locking my joints to project the unbothered calm I forged in the Lowtown gutters.
Zhetrin does not break stride. He guides me down the sweeping central staircase, his sheer, crushing momentum physically forcing the sea of hostile immortals to part.
"Keep your focus moving." Zhetrin leans down, the dark curtain of his obsidian hair brushing my shoulder. "Track the alcove on the right. The male in the crimson doublet. Lord Vane. He controls the southern granaries."
I track the target, carving Vane’s gaunt, sneering features into my memory.
"And the female beside him?" My lips barely move.
"Lady Sylas. Master of the iron-tithes. She commands the weapon forges in the lower rings."
We bypass a fountain bubbling with dark blood-wine. Zhetrin systematically feeds me the identities of the most dangerous players in the room. He isolates the brokers of human labor, the masters of the merchant fleets, and the lords engineering the starvation in the outer districts.
I absorb the data, cataloging their alliances and wealth, though a jagged confusion takes root in my chest.
"Why are you giving me their ledgers?" I angle my face up to his. "I am a surface-dweller. This knowledge is forbidden to my kind."
The rings in his irises flare. A phantom twitch at the corner of his mouth disrupts the brutal severity of his jaw.
"Because a blade is only useful if it knows where to strike."
