Page 80 of Property of Scar

The hairs along the back of my neck rise, and suddenly the room feels occupied in a way it didn’t a second ago.

The sound follows.

Soft. Almost musical.

Not a note I can place or something I can track, just a thread of something that doesn’t belong, sliding through it, catching on the edges of things, pulling my attention toward the door.

By the time I turn…

They’re already here.

Four Seelie guards, silver armor under modern clothing, each one carrying a stillness that fills the room, total and immediate.

Their eyes find the case.

Every calculation in the room recalibrates in the space of a breath.

Valakros moves first, rising from his chair, and the temperature drops six degrees in the time it takes him to draw himself to his full height. “What is the meaning of this?” he says very quietly.

The Seelie guard at the front is young for his kind, which means nothing useful—young in fae terms could be three hundred years and change. He has the bearing of someone who has rehearsed this moment and intends to execute it precisely.

“The crown belongs to the Court,” he says. “You will surrender it.”

I take stock in the half second before anyone moves. Valakros is furious and calculating which direction his fury is more useful. His entourage is waiting for his signal. Ruckus has gone very still, which means he’s already started working the odds, threading possible futures through his fingers like coins. Coil is nowhere to be seen, which means he is everywhere relevant.

This is the moment that either costs us everything…

… or costs us nothing.

I step forward. “Nobody’s surrendering anything… yet,” I say, and I let enough of five centuries settle into my voice that the word yet carries the weight of a threat and a negotiation at exactly the same time. “There’s a conversation to be had first.”

The guard’s eyes move to me, and I hold the look steadily. I’ve looked at things far older and far more dangerous than Seelie guards, and I’ve long since learned that the moment you blink first is the moment you’ve already lost.

“The crown comes home,” the seelie says.

“And it will.” I let that land. “In exchange… for an audience with your queen.”

Silence.

Real silence.

The fae love a bargain. It’s in their nature the way hunger is in mine, not a choice but a compulsion written into what they are. I watch the guard process the offer, see it turn over in his head, and I catch the exact moment something in him gives.

“The Queen will receive you,” he says.

Behind me, Valakros makes a low sound in the back of his throat. Not a growl. The man carries too much control for that, but the message lands all the same.

He’s pissed.

I turn to face him and don’t bother taking the edge off what he’s about to hear. “You’ll receive your refund.”

“The hell I wi—” He stops himself, draws a breath, and reassembles something that might be composure. Valakros is ancient enough to know that no one in this room, not his guards, not his money, not his pride, is worth measuring against what the fae would do to him if he pushed back and lost. “Fine,” he says, and the single word carries the concentrated weight of very expensive fury.

Ruckus takes his time. He always does. The room settles into silence first, everyone watching, waiting, while he stands there looking about as concerned as a man carrying a takeout menu. Like, none of this matters. Like he hasn’t walked into a room full of dangerous people holding the one thing every set of eyes in here is tracking.

Only then does he reach inside his jacket. Slow and easy. The kind of movement that comes from knowing nobody is about to stop you. The case comes out in one hand. It’s small, black, and plain enough to disappear into the background if you didn’t know what was inside it.

I do.