Page 8 of Fated to the Wicked King

I looked around at the pockets of magic glowing among the guests as their attendance was likewise validated. I couldn’t imagine anyone risking entry into the castle without a formal invitation.

As I trailed along toward the Great Hall, the inside of the castle glittered like precious jewels—a stark contrast to the darkness of the castle’s exterior.

Steam curled along the vaulted ceilings of the ballroom as I crossed the threshold, copper pipes veined with gold hissing overhead. Clockwork chandeliers spun in lazy orbits, their crystal prisms catching the light and shattering it into a thousand false dawns. Every surface gleamed—polished brass banisters, marble floors, mirrors framed in whirring cogs that reflected and refracted the crowd until it looked like an army of shining ghosts.

I slowed, letting the sensation wash over me.

Platters drifted past on gyroscopic trays, laden with sugared fruits, gleaming pastries, and cuts of smoky meat. Women in silks and satins, filigreed corsets, elaborately puffed-up skirts. Men in tailored coats with brass buttons and monocles that clicked and whirred as they adjusted.

Like preening birds, a cluster of young women caught my attention. Feathers fluffed, giggles both demure and pitchy, their eyes flicked toward the dais at the far end of the hall. They fussed over their overcomplicated, much too revealing dresses, some embellished with wings, or lace threaded with silver wire and jewels. It was a wonder none of them choked on the thick perfume overwhelming their own air, their eyes gleaming with a mix of hope and apprehension.

They were here for him.

For the King of Wünder.

The thought tightened my chest, and I forced myself to keep moving, boots whispering over marble. I told myself I was a mere observer. I was here to lie low, soak in the experience of this rare night out, before heading back to my bed.

I swiped a pastry from a towering display of profiteroles and caramel-glazed cream puffs. The luxurious, creamy goodness melted in my mouth as soon as I popped it in. I had to tamp down a moan of pleasure.

Then a ripple moved through the crowd.

Laughter faltered. Conversations softened as if the hall itself had drawn a breath.

My heartbeat easily quickened, though I didn’t dare look toward the dais. It was clear who had arrived.

I studied a nearby table stacked with confections shaped like miniature airships, sugar-glass windows glowing from tiny chemical lights inside. Even as the curious murmuring grew in waves over the crowd, huddles of people shifted as if to get a better look.

I closed my eyes.

I had once stood in this grand hall as a guest. Under the watchful gaze of every other courtier’s eye, being whisked to dance across the floor by several prospective partners, and showered with smiles and compliments.

And the sharper memory beneath it: heat, yearning, a voice like gravel and silk intertwined. The haunting music echoed in my mind, fragments of memories, twirling in a haze, arms holding me tight. And also…vivid flashes of passionate nights spent together as if each one was our last⁠—

I opened my eyes as the music shifted.

“Pardon me.”

I turned to meet the eyes of a male courtier wearing a dashing pin-striped tuxedo and a brilliant white smile.

His eyes wandered up and down the length of me in appraisal and visible admiration as he lifted his hand in offering. “Might I beg a dance from the most beautiful woman here tonight?”

My throat went dry. His compliment was flattering, but the shivers running up my spine were not the pleasant kind. “Ah…” Flustered, I couldn’t even put together enough words for a reasonable, polite excuse. I whirled away with a mumble, “Apologies.”

Slack-jawed, the gentleman’s startled gaze followed me.

I avoided meeting his disappointed frown, moving to slip away, ducking my head to avoid further encounters with eager potential dance partners.

The orchestra swelled into a darker key. Brass horns sang alongside copper violin strings. The sound threaded through me, winding tight.

I looked then. I could not help it.

The king stood beneath the great clock-face at the far end of the hall, time looming behind him like a judgment. Tall. Forbidding. His strong chin set, sharp eyes narrowed slightly as he cast his gaze across the crowd.

His hair looked different somehow. But from across the way, his glittering crown, etched with runes that pulsed faintly with sorcerous light, mostly obscured it. His coat, cut with ruthless precision, stretched across his broad shoulders and firm chest, the dark fabric broken only by the glint of metal at his throat and wrists.

His gaze swept the room, slow and measuring.

It passed over me like a blade.