Chapter 10 Rhianelle #3
Footsteps scrape across the floor. Chairs shift. Then voices and movement recede as Petal leads them away.
The silence stretches.
Then the closet door opens again.
Two more fae stand there, one with moth wings in shades of cream and silver. I remember them too.
River and Fleur.
“Fawn!” Fleur’s face lights up. “We’re here to get you and your prince out.”
Prince? I look at Arescaine. His wings fold tightly against his back.
“We thought you’d come back,” River says, his voice warm. Then his expression turns serious. “But we need to move now. Before they finish with Petal’s distraction.”
“What happened to Petal’s eye?” I ask.
River’s face darkens. “She spilled wine on a High Fae’s boot by accident. The soldier backhanded her across the room.”
The rage in my chest burns hotter. “The fae commanders did nothing?”
“They are all Highborn Fae,” Fleur says bitterly. “They said she should be more careful. One of them grabbed her afterward. He said if she was clumsy with wine, maybe she’d be better at other services.”
I stare at her, unable to believe what I am hearing.
“It’s been like this for weeks now,” River says, his voice shaking. “Fae soldiers and nobility come here and treat us like garbage.”
“The Fae King used to keep the noble houses in check because of the massive power imbalance between them and us,” Fleur adds quietly.
“There was a balance, with punishments for those who crossed into lesser fae territories and took what wasn’t theirs.
But something’s changed. King Eirik doesn’t punish those who break the rules anymore.
The groundlings are frightened. Everyone feels it. No one knows who will be hurt next.”
“Something is wrong with the king,” River says. “People are saying he’s different now.”
“Come on,” Fleur urges. “Before they notice.”
We slip out of the closet. The private room is empty now, the evidence from the meeting still scattered across the table.
Petal appears in the doorway, slightly breathless. The bruise on her eye looks even worse in better light.
“They’re settled,” she says softly.
Her gaze shifts to me then, lingering as though she’s making sure I’m really here. “You came back, Fawn.”
She crosses the room and wraps her arms around me before I can answer. I hold her carefully, mindful of her wings, but guilt twists inside me. She welcomes me like an old friend, while everything she knows about me is built around a lie.
“You don’t know who I am,” I say as she pulls away. “Who I really am.”
Petal tilts her head. “You’re Fawn. Our friend.”
I look at Arescaine. Revealing myself here is dangerous, and the warning in his eyes is unmistakable.
His eyes seem to say, Do not tell them.
I reveal myself anyway.
“Thank you for accepting me as your friend, but you need to know something.” I pull back my hood, letting them see my face and silver hair clearly. “I’m Queen Rhianelle of Aelfheim.”
All three of them go very still. Petal’s lips part, but no sound comes. Fleur stares at my hair and then my face. River takes one slow step backward and nearly collides with the table.
Disbelief passes between them. They look at me as though trying to fit Fawn and the elven queen into the same person.
“The elven queen…” River breathes.
“You’re the ruler of Aelfheim?” Fleur’s eyes go wide.
Petal shakes her head slowly. “But you were here with us. You laughed when we were impersonating…” Her voice trails off as horror replaces the disbelief.
I look at each of them. “I couldn’t tell you last time. Forgive me—”
“We really need to go,” River suddenly says, reaching for my hand. The instant his fingers touch mine, he seems to remember what I just revealed and nearly pulls away. “Your Highness. I’m sorry. But we really need to go.”
He closes his hand around mine again and leads us from the room. Petal and Fleur hurry ahead, guiding us through corridors that seem to change each time we turn a corner.
At first, I think the shifting passages are another glamour. Then the wall beside us gives a low groan and bends inward before slowly straightening again.
Something is wrong with the building.
Arescaine remains close behind me, his attention moving constantly between the branching passages and every closed door we pass.
We’ve almost reached the main room when a figure steps out from a side passage. He is tall, dressed in shimmering clothes, with his hair arranged in an elegant coiffure.
The Auctioneer.
“Oh, Fawn! You’re here again,” Thorn Vale says with a warm smile, his eyes bright. “What an unexpected delight. I had wondered whether my mysterious friend would ever return.”
Before I can answer, his gaze moves to Petal. All theatrical warmth disappears from his face. The Auctioneer approaches her slowly and raises one hand. He reaches out and touches her face with two fingers, tilting it gently toward the light to look at the bruise.
His jaw tightens. “What that soldier did to you is unforgivable.”
Petal shivers. “He’s still here. In the building.”
“Oh, I’m very aware.” The Auctioneer’s smile is sharp and cold. “Which is why I’ve made a decision.”
He snaps his fingers. A small ornate case appears in his hand, filled with glowing seeds.
“The Painted Moth is leaving Greenvale,” he announces. “This town is no longer safe, not with fae commanders and soldiers who think they can abuse my people without consequence.”
“You’re closing?” Fleur’s voice catches.
“Yes, we’re relocating. These seeds will grow new Moths elsewhere. Smaller, quieter, away from the war.” He looks at Petal’s bruised eye, at River and Fleur’s haunted expressions. “We’ll go to places where people remember respect.”
“What about them?” River asks quietly. “Lord Kharlis and the commanders are still waiting for their servers.”
Thorn’s grin sharpens.
“The Painted Moth remembers those who violate hospitality and those who abuse those under its protection.” He walks toward the center of the main room. “It has a long memory.”
A deep tremor rolls through the floor. Glasses rattle upon the tables, and the chandeliers sway overhead.
It feels less like an earthquake and more like something vast stirring beneath us. The Moth itself seems to be coming alive.
Another shudder passes through the building. Wine ripples over the rims of the remaining patrons’ goblets, and the room falls silent.
The floor lurches violently beneath my feet. My hand fists in the front of Arescaine’s coat before I realize what I am doing. He doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he shifts closer, bracing us both against the movement. His wings flare slightly behind him, creating a shield between me and a falling shower of dust from the ceiling.
For a brief moment, surrounded by chaos, I feel impossibly steady. Then the tremor passes. I release his coat and step back, heat creeping into my face.
“Ladies, gentlemen, honored guests,” the Auctioneer announces in his grandest theatrical voice. He spreads his arms toward the room. “The Painted Moth is closing immediately. Please exit through the main doors. The building is… redecorating.”
No one needs to be told twice. Chairs scrape backward as patrons leap to their feet. They seize cloaks, purses and whatever clothing they can reach before rushing toward the entrance. Within moments, the main room begins to empty as the guests pour out in panic.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, though part of me already knows.
“Justice for Petal. For every person who’s been hurt within these walls while I wait for the Fae King to come to his senses.” Thorn Vale looks at me. “He won’t. So I will.”
The Auctioneer raises his hands.
“Go,” he says. “Now.”
Petal grabs my arm. “We need to leave. When the Moth closes like this—”
The floor bucks beneath us. A section of the ceiling groans above us, and dust drifts down from between the carved panels.
Fleur peels away from us, her butterfly wings spreading wide, and begins moving back through the corridors. She trails something from her fingers as she goes, a fine shimmering dust that catches the light. It drifts behind her like pollen as she heads toward the private rooms.
“Fleur!” River screams.
“I need to make sure they can’t escape,” Fleur calls back, continuing to scatter the glowing pollen as she moves. The dust spreads across the corridor in a widening veil, sinking into the carpets and clinging to the walls. “Go. I’ll catch up.”
River catches Petal’s hand with one of his own and reaches for Arescaine with the other. The moment his fingers close around the vampire’s arm, he shudders. Fear flashes across his face, but he does not let go.
“This way,” River says, making himself hold on as he guides us toward the exit.
We run.
Behind us, the building begins to breathe differently. The walls contract on one side and expand on the other. Rooms fold inward like a hand closing into a fist.
But the path ahead remains wide and clear. The corridor holds its shape, guiding us toward the exit as though the Painted Moth is choosing who to release.
Deeper in, where Kharlis and the commanders had been led, the screams start.
The Painted Moth is collapsing inward. It crushes and compacts around the people trapped within its maze, killing them.
“Don’t look back,” River urges as we run. “Just keep moving.”
But I hear the grinding of stone and wood behind us. The screams end one by one until only the thunder of the shifting building remains. Then that fades too, leaving a terrible silence.
We burst through the main entrance just as the Painted Moth gives its final shudder.
Outside, chaos consumes the street. Patrons pour out behind us, some still clutching drinks, others half-dressed, all of them pushing away from the building as fast as they can.
The towers sink first, followed by the outer walls, each section bending and locking together as though the Moth is closing its wings. Rooms, corridors and staircases compress into a dense, twisting mass. Dust bursts across the street and forces the crowd farther back.