Page 31 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“They are loyal only to me, Duchess. Do not fear them,” Oorlon said. Then, after a deliberate pause, “Unless I command it.”

Biting laughter rippled through the table, joining the din of the hall and ringing in Kora’s ears. The room seemed to draw tighter around her, pressure mounting against her composure. She eased her chair back and rose.

“I need some air,” Kora murmured to the duke.

He looked up at once, clear concern beneath his restraint. Though still courteous, he had been uncharacteristically quiet since the baron’s match.

“I will only be a moment. No need for an escort,” she added, almost pleading.

He inclined his head in subdued assent, though he did not look entirely convinced.

Kora slipped through the nearest exit she could find. The corridor beyond was blessedly quiet. She walked for a time, her footsteps the only sound on the polished stone, and drew deep breaths, willing the echoes in her ears to fade.

Another set of footsteps joined her own, plainly intending to be noticed.

Kora’s stomach dropped.

Her pulse quickened as she turned.

From the shadows stepped a male with short silver hair. His face was hard, marked by a scar running from cheekbone to jaw—a blemish she had not seen on any other fae. The corner of his mouth tipped into a cold smile. “A duchess wanders alone,” he drawled.

Kora’s spine stiffened. “I needed air,” she blurted.

“Air,” he repeated, as though testing the word. He moved closer, violet eyes fixed on hers. “Almost completely green. Most unusual.” A pause. “Who are your parents?”

Her throat tightened. “My father is Albrecht verStampebl, Viscount of Marrowgate.”

“And your mother?”

“Lorenthea,” Kora said quickly. “Viscountess of Marrowgate.”

His eyes narrowed. “Strange, then. Blood reveals itself in curious ways.”

He stepped closer.

Kora retreated until her back met the cold stone wall. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, forcing the words into steadiness.

“Don’t you?” His head tipped slightly. “Color in the human—”

“Damlor,” a melodic voice interrupted.

They turned. Queen Sifia stood at the far end of the hall, her hands folded before her. She carried her usual restrained mien, but here it held a quiet authority.

“The western gates require inspection,” she said, in a way that made clear they did not.

Damlor bent into a mocking bow. “As you wish, my Queen.” He pivoted sharply and vanished down the corridor.

Kora sagged against the wall, relief breaking through the last of her composure.

Sifia approached, steps light as falling snow. She laid a cool hand on Kora’s arm, amethyst eyes intent. “You should not be alone,” she said softly. “It is not safe.”

Kora swallowed and nodded.

The queen kept her hand there for a moment longer, as if to underscore the warning, before she turned away, her white hair trailing like mist as she receded into the castle’s depths.

Unable to coax cooperation from her limbs, Kora remained there for some time, heart still racing as she replayed and tried to untangle the exchange. Then she gathered her skirts and hurried back to reclaim her seat beside the duke.

Oorlon watched her with a madness that did not fade for the remainder of the night. And Kora understood then that her fascination with the fae kingdom was matched—perhaps even bested—by its fascination with her.