Page 39 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Kora did not move. She searched Gavriel’s face for an explanation he did not have. “What happened?” she asked, so softly it was nearly a breath.

Gavriel composed himself, schooling his expression into calm. “Nothing,” he said carefully, summoning the most convincing smile he could manage. “Only a trick of moonlight.” Then, “Thank you, Captain.”

Knowing formality was required again, beyond the delicate privacy they had shared, he added, “Come, Your Grace, we should not leave the duke to Oorlon’s favorites without reinforcement. And the best of the honeyed seed cakes will disappear if we hesitate.”

Doubt flickered through her eyes, but she nodded. “Of course.”

At the threshold of the feasting hall, Kora paused. She looked back, and Gavriel felt his heart stumble, caught between what he knew and what he had seen.

Perhaps the ward had simply faltered. Perhaps he had glimpsed some deeper truth. Or perhaps, in a realm such as this, it was yet another thing of which he could never be certain.

Chapter 21

Gavriel

Gavriel’s mother, may the moons shine kindly upon her soul, had always told him observation was the greatest education. One need not pay a pretty coin for the grandest tutors, if one simply made use of the eyes they were given and the sense to trust what they revealed.

And so Gavriel watched nobles from beneath her skirts as she worked, soldiers dueling from the shadows of the stands, and the fae from under their noses as they gloated and preened. He learned how to tilt their arrogance to his advantage, marking which warranted caution. And which were best avoided entirely. Most notably, Drifah.

As they took their seats, it was not the image of Kora that scattered his thoughts. Nor was it that she had once again ensured he sat between herself and the duke. Nor the unanswered question of whether he might return to human lands. It was Drifah’s eyes, violet and green like a bruise that refused to heal, fastened on him with open intent. She lounged at Oorlon’s table in the satisfied sprawl of a creature that knew itself untouchable.

They called her the Lavender Belle but, to Gavriel, she was more belladonna than lavender, more monster than belle.

Her eyes were where it began. She watched him fight, clapping when he bested a fae, laughing when he failed. Then came the words, sliding through his thoughts like whispers through a half-closed door. Harmless at first. A suggestion that he smile. That he lean closer when she spoke. And then the frost crept deeper, cutting through his will until he found himself in her bed, another piece of himself stripped away in an unraveling he could neither halt nor escape.

Gavriel resisted, of course, at first. But Oorlon was mad enough to adore his daughter, blind to her nature; wounding her pride was to invite death. So he played the star-crossed lover trapped in a role written by the cursed moons themselves. Another performance that kept him alive. Another observed lesson in how swiftly dignity could be bartered.

He tore his eyes away from Drifah’s before her smile could turn into a hint his mind could not fight, and focused on Kora.

She sat with her eyes lowered, only occasionally lifting them in contemplative sweeps around the room. Gavriel sensed her lingering confusion from the temple and her discomfort when she glanced at Astriyed, who sat within reach of Oorlon’s hand, eating nothing and speaking to no one, bitterness tracing her grace like a hidden scar.

Yes, in this shared pain, Gavriel could understand Astriyed’s rancor.

Trumpets rang at the far end of the hall, the sound cleaving through both chatter and melancholy. A herald stepped into the center of the chamber, lifting a staff high.

“The King’s Champion!”

Njall entered without diamonds, without spectacle. Only black leather across his lean, massive frame, two short swords crossed at his back, and obsidian hair bound at his nape.

The hall fell into complete silence.

Slowly, the Norrelians broke into hesitant applause.

Njall bowed curtly, then glanced around the chamber, violet eyes finding Astriyed first, then landing on Gavriel. His stern expression eased, and he inclined his head subtly in greeting.

Gavriel returned the nod, feeling a quiet relief at seeing him again.

Kora leaned toward him. “I thought all Norrelians had silver hair,” she murmured. “And then… him. Why?”

The duke’s eyes flickered in their direction.

Gavriel stiffened. “Norrelian father,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low without leaning closer. “Aurumierran mother. Distant mixing of fae bloodlines tends to show itself in streaks or small irregularities. But a direct union usually produces clearer divisions. Njall took the hair color of the southern fae, but his magic favors the north. Violet eyes.”

“So no Aurumierran magic,” Kora reasoned, tilting her head, “and his Norrelian magic is likely weaker than that of a pure Norrelian, since blending dilutes power.”

Gavriel nodded, casting another glance toward Lemierre. The man remained still, his attention seemingly elsewhere, yet his head was angled, listening.

“And he is still the King’s Champion,” Kora pressed, “even though he isn’t pure?”