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“What business,” the Queen of Vallahan sneered, “is it of yours?”

“The business,” I shot back, “of people who wish to leave this world better than how we found it.” The last request of the Suriel—my final promise to it.

“Better by whose definition?” The Queen of Vallahan scoffed. “Better for us would be more lands, our old borders rightfully returned. Better for the humans, too, who do not speak to the land and to whom the land will never respond. We can coax the fields into fertility—and distribute the benefit from the harvests.”

My crown weighed heavily, digging into my scalp, my skull. I kept my chin high, though, as I said, “The Fae have all the power. The humans have none. The least we can do is let them live in peace. Separate from us.”

“And again I ask,” the queen demanded, utterly unfazed, “what business is it of yours?”

I might have responded had Rhys not gone preternaturally still. What had he figured out? The bond between our minds lay silent.

The Queen of Vallahan continued with that vicious sneer, “I shall say it again: You rule one territory. One territory on an island. Prythian’s size is but a drop compared to the vastness of the continent. And yet you believe that you may dictate to us what the fate of the world, the relations between Fae and human, immortal and mortal, shall be?”

I spread my hands on the table, tattoos dark as night against my pale skin. “I was born human. I know a thing or two about human and Fae relations.”

I used the opportunity to again sweep my power over her spoiled son. Still nothing.

The Queen of Vallahan waved a hand, rings glinting above her tattoos. “There are others with similar knowledge. You call for this meeting with us, the rulers of entire kingdoms, when you lead a fraction of a territory. Are you authorized to speak on behalf of all Prythian? If you are so hell-bent on humans being entitled to our ancestral land, where is the delegation of mortals to plead their case? Or have you appointed yourself speaker for the humans of Prythian, too?”

I forced myself to tell Rhys calmly, I’m done. None of them have a Made object on them, or any trace of recently using one. I checked them all twice.

Az just said the same.

We could both be wrong, though, I admitted. We should have brought Nesta.

I wouldn’t trust her to control herself, my mate said tightly.

I bristled, but now wasn’t the time to delve into the lack of trust between my mate and my sister.

I trust you and Az, though—that between you two, you learned what we need to know.

Yes. None of them have been near a Made object recently.

Ever the silky courtier, Mor said, “The new treaty was agreed upon by many of the High Lords of Prythian.”

“Many,” the grand vizier noted, dripping with condescension, “but not all. I do not recall hearing from Autumn or Spring that they approve.”

“You have come a very long way,” Rhys said, night gathering at his broad shoulders like phantom wings, “for people who do not wish to even entertain the idea of treating with us.”

The Mistress of the Unseen inclined her head with that mock piety, gilded braids glinting. “We came to offer the honor of telling you face-to-face to stick to your lands. Leave the business of the continent to those who live there. If you wish to continue granting humans autonomy over that piece of land in Prythian, that is your right. But you do not dictate what we do across the sea.” Her eyes narrowed to burning slits, utterly unfazed by the dark power radiating from my mate. “Though you may believe you have the right—and might—to do so.”

I stilled, bracing for the blow. Rhys asked with unnerving serenity, “What does that mean?”

The Queen of Vallahan hissed, “You preach peace, yet you amass weapons of war.”

The King of Vallahan restrained his wife with a touch to her fur-bundled arm and said, a shade more tactfully, “It has come to our attention that the Night Court possesses several objects of ancient and terrible power. That the Dread Trove now lies in your hands, along with . . . other items.”

It shouldn’t have been a shock. The human queens, Briallyn especially, had known about the Trove. She could have told anyone. And Koschei, that malevolent force lurking in the continent’s heart, knew, too. I wouldn’t have put it past him to sow the information about, hoping to seed discord.

“We have no plans to wield the Trove,” Rhys said firmly.

He didn’t say, of course, that we had used it. Nesta had. And had risked all of us by—I shut my thoughts down and brought my attention back to the conversation at hand.

“That may be true, but you still possess the Trove,” the Duke of Bernion said. “You, with all your power, Rhysand, are still gathering more. We heard the Cauldron was also in play during that squabble between you and Hybern.”

“Squabble,” Mor spat, but Rhys motioned her down with a wave of his hand.

My mate crossed one leg over the other, casual despite the brewing tempest of power still gathering around him. “And what should I do with such objects when they cross my path?” He examined his neatly trimmed nails, the portrait of idle arrogance, even as death beckoned in his violet-blue eyes. “Shall I hand them over to you?”