Page 81 of Property of Scar

So does everybody else.

Ruckus sets it on the table. The sound is barely more than a soft tap against polished wood, but it lands like a hammer anyway. Conversations die, and attention narrows. The entire room seems to lean toward it without anybody physically moving.

He flips the latches.

Click.

Click.

The noise cuts through the silence sharp enough to draw blood.

Then he lifts the lid. The crown rests inside the lining, as if it belongs there. Old metal catches the low light and twists it into something darker. It holds the light instead of reflecting it, turning the gold into something ancient and weighty.

It just sits there.

Waiting.

The guard steps forward, but not immediately. He takes a second, measuring the distance, the weight of the room, the eyes on him. When he does move, it’s careful without being hesitant, each step placed with the kind of awareness that comes from knowing exactly how much this moment matters.

He stops at the table.

Looks at the crown.

Really looks at it.

His gaze traces the details, the structure, the kind of craftsmanship that doesn’t need to be understood. There’s a pause, longer than it should be, like he’s confirming something internal before committing to what comes next.

Only then does he reach out with both hands. He lifts the crown from the case with a slow, deliberate motion, testing its weight, the reality of it, turning it just enough so the light catches along its edges again.

No one shifts position, not visibly, but the awareness sharpens, attention pulling taut in a way that doesn’t allow for mistakes. The kind of stillness that isn’t calm. Right now, it’s just contained.

The guard studies the crown for another second.

Then he gives a single, almost imperceptible nod.

That’s the moment everything changes.

The exchange reverses.

A second case is brought forward, heavier and less subtle, the kind that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. It slides across the table toward us, the weight of it evident in the low drag of it against the surface.

Ruckus takes it without opening it or checking, as if the outcome was never in question, as if this was always going to go exactly this way.

The tension in the room doesn’t ease.

One of the Seelie guards shifts just enough to be noticed, his attention moving from the crown to us, his expression holding something faintly amused and entirely without warmth. “Last time…” he says, voice smooth in a way that doesn’t belong to anything human, “… you were harder to do business with.”

The words settle into the space between us, light in delivery, heavy in implication.

He tilts his head slightly, studying us like something already decided. “The queen remembers everything that happened with…” he pauses, just long enough to let it land, “… her son, the Seelie Prince.”

No one interrupts him.

No one needs to.

The warning is clear enough without being sharpened further.

I let it sit for a beat, then tilt my head in return, a faint curve pulling at my mouth that doesn’t soften anything.