Chapter 27 Mav
MAV
Isat on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the restless flutter beneath my ribs.
My jacket was a light-consuming navy, embroidered at the cuffs and collar with delicate gold threads.
The crisp white shirt beneath it had been pressed by someone far more capable than me, its high collar framing the edges of my jaw.
The matching trousers fit better than any I’d ever owned, and the boots gleamed as though they’d been polished by royal hands.
The final piece—a half-mask of brushed gold filigree—waited in its box.
For once, I didn’t look like a tired, battered knight. I looked like someone who might belong here, even though I certainly didn’t feel like it.
“I’m ready when you are,” I called to Quinn, hearing her negotiating with far more layers than I had to contend with behind the dressing screen.
She stepped into the room, and my jaw dropped as my lungs stopped working.
Quinn stood there, framed in the glow of the setting sun.
Her gown was deep indigo, clinging in places I didn’t dare let my gaze linger long.
Tiny glass beads stitched across the bodice like constellations captured in fabric.
I wanted to press a kiss to every inch of her bare shoulders so she’d have the memory of my lips lingering on her for the rest of the night.
As breathtaking as she was, none of it compared to the way she looked at me. Her gaze was soft, warm, and a little shy—as if she didn’t know the effect she was having on me.
And seven hells, what an effect.
It hit low in my chest. Not merely desire, though there was plenty of that. It was awe. Reverence. As if she stepped out of one of the old stories the knights used to tell themselves during the war, when all hope seemed lost. Somehow, she was standing here, hewn from dreams and dusk.
Saints, what does she see in me?
I cleared my throat, stumbling to summon speech. “You’re…you’re stunning.”
Quinn beamed at me, and I forgot what air was for.
I no longer needed it.
It was her I needed to breathe.
“Turn,” I murmured.
She obliged. The back of her dress dipped low enough to make my hands ache to touch her. A ribboned corset cinched her waist, but the top ties had been left loose where she couldn’t quite reach them.
“May I?”
She nodded.
Picking up the ribbons, my fingers brushed along the warm line of her spine.
Her skin was soft beneath my touch. Quinn’s shoulder blades lifted a fraction, then settled, as if her body were trying not to lean into me.
Each pull of the corset was deliberate, slow—a quiet binding of want and worship neither of us spoke aloud.
When it was snug, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the bare space between her neck and shoulder.
Her breath hitched. “If you keep doing that,” she said, her voice low, “we might miss the event altogether.”
I smiled against her skin, lips brushing her collarbone. “Promise?”
She laughed then, wicked and warm.
We donned our masks and descended the inn’s curving staircase together, her hand resting in the crook of my arm. I couldn’t stop staring at her. When we reached the foyer, I wasn’t the only one stunned into silence.
Thistle stood with one hip cocked and both hands braced at her waist, looking like she’d stepped straight out of some highborn fairytale—one where the heroine would rob you blind, gut you in an alley, and look beautiful doing it.
Her dress was deep emerald green, fitted at the waist before flaring into a skirt that brushed the tops of her boots.
Silver vinework embroidery curled along the sleeves and hem, ivy caught mid-climb.
Her hair had been twisted into small coils at the crown and pinned with tiny gold cuffs, accentuated by her bronze fox-shaped mask.
“Yes, it’s actually me. Try not to faint,” Thistle said, grinning. “Quinn, my dear, you’re an absolute vision.”
Quinn smiled at her, a flush forming on her cheeks. “Thank you, as are you.”
Branrir loomed behind her, a wall of unshakable presence.
He wore formal military attire—white and gold, in crisp, stern lines.
At his left shoulder, a lion-shaped pauldron gleamed proudly.
A ceremonial sword hung at his hip, its hilt adorned with a single purple tassel.
His mask was full-plate, burnished gold with narrow eye slits.
He inclined his head toward us. “You clean up better than expected, Mav.”
“I tried,” I said dryly.
And then there was Vesper. Somehow, he’d acquired a miniature plum cape and was attempting—poorly—to balance an owl-shaped mask on his head. The beak kept sliding sideways, giving him the air of a masked highwayman who’d already stolen tithes and would, without hesitation, do it again.
“I demand to be carried like royalty,” he declared, lifting a paw.
“No,” Thistle said instantly.
He sighed, fluffing his fur. “Worth a shot.”
Before I could respond, Thistle turned back to Quinn, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hold still.”
Thistle reached up and brushed her fingertips along the top edge of Quinn’s mask. The green glow of Hedge magic whispered into the air. From above the right brow, tiny violet buds unfurled, crowning the mask.
“There,” Thistle said, leaning back to admire her handiwork. “Now you’re perfect.”
Quinn lifted tentative fingers to brush the petals along her mask. “Thank you,” she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.
No. Thank you. I offered my arm again. “Shall we?”
Her smile illuminated a corner of my heart I had kept in shadow for years. With a squeeze of my forearm, she said, “Let us go.”
Together, we stepped into the cooling evening, the bells of the city carrying us toward the castle.
The streets of Aurillion glowed like a dream.
Hearths ignited flames in tiny lanterns that floated on suspended wires.
Music drifted from somewhere ahead—harps and low drums, the heartbeat of a city dressed in celebration.
But I couldn’t absorb any of it.
I couldn’t stop looking at her.
Quinn moved with quiet grace, her skirts swaying gently as she walked. She didn’t seem to notice how many people turned to watch her—or maybe she did and simply didn’t care.
“I don’t think I can tell you enough,” I said, my voice low, “how beautiful you are.”
She glanced sideways at me with a crooked smile. “I shall never tire of hearing it.” Her fingers tightened against my arm. “But…you value more than my appearance, yes?”
I drew us to an abrupt stop and grasped her chin gently, tilting it up to look at me.
“Of course I do.” I let the words settle, then added, “You’re brave, clever, and kind.
And you speak up, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Even when you’re scared. You say what needs saying.
” I took a shaky inhale. “And when you laugh, it sounds like hope. Yes, I find you devastatingly beautiful, but more than that, I am in awe of you, Quinn.”
Her breath caught, soft but audible. Her eyes were glassy now, but she didn’t look away.
“You make me feel like I matter,” I said, brushing a straying curl behind her ear, relishing the way she leaned ever so slightly into my touch. “That I’m more than the worst parts of me. As if I’m someone that, one day, might be worth choosing.”
Instead of speaking, she leaned in and rested her head against my shoulder.
I breathed in the scent of her and let my eyes fall shut for one perfect moment. The crowd moved around us in waves of velvet and chatter, masks glittering, laughter echoing, but for that heartbeat, it was only us.
The road sloped upward toward the castle.
The entrance loomed, tall enough to make even Branrir look short, carved from thick, dark wood.
As the crowd surged forward, the doors parted.
The entry hall was excess incarnate. Marble floors were polished to a mirror sheen.
Gold-veined columns soared so high I lost sight of their capitals.
The walls were lined with statues, paintings, and other homages—seemingly all of one man.
The king, I presumed. Each more heroic and smug than the last. In one portrait, he wrestled a lion with his bare hands—the lion notably bewildered.
In another, he stood atop a battlefield, sword raised, not a speck of dirt on his pristine armor.
The sculptures varied in size and posture, but every version was poised to deliver a dramatic speech.
Every five paces, another monument or tribute.
Another shining testament to a man with access to far too many artists and not nearly enough humility.
I leaned closer to Quinn, lowering my voice. “A man with that many statues is definitely compensating for something.”
She choked on a laugh and quickly covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Mav,” she giggled, half-horrified, half-delighted.
I smirked. “What? Just making an observation.”
Her eyes sparkled. She bumped her shoulder gently into mine as we passed a full-body sculpture of the king heroically saving a child from a fire, with, of course, not a trace of soot on his robes.
As we made our way further down the hall, worry creased Quinn’s forehead as her eyes rounded.
“Are you all right, princess?” I asked. The nickname snapped her partially out of her wary trance.
“All of these art pieces share his exact likeness,” she breathed.
My brows furrowed. “The prince who cast the spell?”
She gave a timid nod. It made my blood boil that, even after hundreds of years, the bastard still had the ability to make her feel afraid. I considered setting several of the paintings on fire to make a point.
“I’m not surprised all the images look alike,” Branrir chimed in, smoothing his jacket. “The dark hair, alabaster skin, and blue eyes have been traits of the royal line since the kingdom’s founding.”
Vesper sniffed at one of the many absurdly posed statues. “But all of these plaques say the same name.”
Branrir huffed a laugh. “Ah, yes. All kings of Avandria have been named Edric from the beginning.”
A shudder ran down Thistle’s spine. “It’s strange we’ve had generations of what seem like duplicates of our first ruler.”
“The royals have never been much for originality,” Vesper snarked.
I glanced down at Quinn. Despite Branrir’s explanation, her worry hadn’t lessened. I laid my hand over hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, full of a plea I was powerless to deny.
“I promise, Quinn.” I lifted her gloved hand to my mouth and pressed my lips to her palm.
If the entryway was this ridiculous…what fresh royal insanity waited beyond the doors?
The music grew louder. The hallway widened.
And the carved archway of the grand ballroom came into view.
Quinn gripped my arm a bit tighter. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
Her eyes had gone wide, reflecting the golden light spilling from the room.
While she seemed to be taking in the absurd splendor of the castle, there was a shadow of fear crowding her gaze.
I tightened my mask’s strap, then covered her hand with mine and squeezed once.
She glanced up, and I smiled at her in a look I hoped would calm her nerves.
We stepped forward together, into whatever waited beyond.