Page 47

A cold wire of irritation tightened in my throat. I forced my chin up, meeting his gaze with unyielding stone.

Your heir.

I made a silent point to scan the sea of bodies beyond the platform—searching not for a friendly face, but for a threat. I looked for the telltale signs of a creature molded by Dellyn’s hands: someone with a posture carved out of pure apathy, whose eyes calculated the quickest way to break a spine without breaking a sweat. A male like Dellyn wouldn’t raise a soft successor; he’d forge a cold, surgical instrument of terror. Surely the hidden heir of More Alora was a monster who learned to turn cruelty into an art form before he ever learned to speak.

Kaelor.

“I shall keep my eyes on the field, Lord Dellyn,” I said smoothly, keeping my voice level.

Caspian and I inclined our heads in a final, rigid bow, stepping backward off the wooden dais until our bare feet touched the warm grass of the valley floor. We turned on our heels, marching away from the suffocating shadow of the throne and back into the undulating crowd.

The tropical steam from the lake rolled thick across the central path, swallowing the heavy silence stretching between Caspian and I. We had barely taken five steps before a broad shadow stepped through the white vapor. Soren hadn’t just chanced upon us; he’d been searching. He stepped out from the edge of the tree line to intercept us, his warm brown eyes instantly catching the tension in my posture, tracking my flushed face with quiet alertness.

Without a word of courtly explanation, Soren’s strong arm slid through mine, locking his elbow firmly against my side to anchor me against the restless energy of the crowd. I turned my head toward Caspian, a sudden question forming on my lips—but the space beside me was already empty. Caspian had already drifted away, his broad frame absorbed into the white fog.

Soren didn’t let the silence settle. With a firm, deliberate pressure against my arm, he steered me away from the steps and drove us directly into the thrumming heart of the white-clad crowd.

The humidity beneath the high lords’ ward wrapped around us, thick with the intoxicating scent of crushed night-lilies and roasted honey. The low, guttural thud of the drums rattled against my ribs, a primal cadence that dictated the very heartbeat of the valley floor.

We began to move. Soren caught my hands, his touch steady and grounding as he guided me into the rhythm of the dance. He moved with a fluid, effortless grace that completely contradicted his rigid posture, his white tunic shifting loosely over his chest.

As the silver mist rolled over our ankles, I noticed the shift in the air around us. Several Fae females from the eastern houses looked back over their shoulders, their emerald and amber eyes locking onto Soren with hungry intent. He caught their stares, a quiet, knowing spark passing behind his eyes. He was a captain, a high-ranking male in the prime of his immortal life, and on solstice night, he was a prize the court wanted to claim.

Yet, his feet remained anchored to mine. His eyes always snapped back to my face, his protective vigilance keeping him tethered to my side like a shadow hound refusing to leave its post.

I slammed my palms flat against his chest, shoving him backward.

“Go enjoy yourself, Captain,” I commanded, my voice carrying a sharp edge meant to cut through his relentless duty. “I know the King relieved you of the watch tonight. I am standing in the exact center of a public lawn surrounded by thousands of witnesses and the entire sovereign council. Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me in the next few hours.”

Soren stilled, his chest rising and falling in ragged increments as he balanced on the grass. He stared down at me for a long, heavy second, his gaze searching my eyes for any trace of the vulnerability I usually hid behind my shield. He was weighing the danger, but the lawless magic of the three moons was pulling at his blood just as fiercely as the rest of the court.

Before he could construct an argument, a Fae female with deep bronze skin and elaborate silver rings woven through her dark braids glided out of the white sea fog. She didn’t ask for permission. She looped her slender arms around Soren’s neck, a wicked, carnal smile pulling at her lips as she dragged his massive frame backward into the mass of dancers.

Soren offered one final, lingering glance over his shoulder, but he didn’t fight her. He let the current take him, his white silk tunic dissolving into the endless field of white.

Finally, I was entirely alone.

The tropical warmth caught the thin silk of my gown, pressing the damp fabric against my thighs as I drew a slow, uninhibited breath. I closed my eyes, shutting out the glinting silver chains, the vacant stare of my father on the dais, and the ghosts of the execution yard.

I dropped my armor. I let my head tilt back toward the swollen silver moons, allowing the deep, booming resonance of the drums to sink straight into my marrow. I began to move my body to the rhythm, feeling the vibration catch in my bones—a wild, fluid motion that tracked the carnal energy of the longest night. The sharp, clipped thoughts that usually ran in circles through my mind faded into a grey blur, and for the first time since my feet hit this realm, I simply let myself lose everything to the dark.

The thrumming beat of the drums snaked up from the grass, sinking into my bare soles and anchoring straight into my spine. I surrendered fully to the cadence, my hips swaying in time with the ocean of white silk surrounding me. The heavy, humid mist clung to my skin, making the translucent fabric of my gown feel like a second skin, mapping every curve and line of my body. The silver chains draped loosely across my hips, clicking softly with every turn. I was completely undone from my usual posture, drifting into a hypnotic rhythm where the castle’s political traps couldn’t reach me.

Suddenly, a pair of large, heavy hands slid out of the silver fog, settling firmly onto the curve of my hips.

The physical contact triggered an instant, violent spike in my chest. A desperate spark of hope flared hot beneath my ribs, my mind immediately conjuring the image of piercing blue eyes and ink-black tattoos.

Caspian.

The thought was an intoxicating, urgent demand that made my breath catch in my throat. I wanted it to be him. I wanted the High Captain to have finally broken through his rigid stoicism to claim his place at my back.

I glanced back over my shoulder, my copper-red waves spilling over my arm as I turned my head.

The hope fractured instantly. It wasn’t him.

Standing behind me was a fae male with flawless caramel skin and sharp, golden-amber eyes that burned with an appreciative hunger. His white silk tunic was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the smooth, sculpted muscle of his torso. He smiled—a slow, predatory expression that showed the edge of his teeth as his long fingers tightened against my waist, pulling my back flat against his chest.

A cold wave of disappointment tried to take root in my gut, but I ruthlessly crushed it down. I refused to let the ghost of a male who had turned his back and walked away ruin my very first solstice night. I was twenty-three years old and I would not spend the longest night of the year mourning a shadow.