58. Chapter 58
AMARIA
When Eryndor did finally come back it was with the wrong key.
The one to my cell, not Caden's chains. And a court summons pressed into my hand like an apology.
"The betrothal ball." His voice was flat. "My father requires your attendance."
I stared at him. "He tortured me for a week and now he wants me at a party?"
"He wants me functional enough to stand beside my bride.
Which means you need to be close enough that the tether doesn't make me collapse in front of the entire court.
" His eyes hardened. "He's not releasing you because he's merciful.
He's releasing you because my pain would be publicly inconvenient. "
Of course.
"Serenya? Maxx?"
"Already upstairs. Getting dressed." He held out his hand. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't—"
"It's fine." I took his hand. Let him pull me up. "Let's go celebrate your wedding!"
He stared at me.
I stared at him.
His mouth twitched first. Mine followed.
Then we both burst out into laughter, because what else was there?
What else could you do when the male who'd just bound his soul to yours was about to marry someone else and your brother was wired into the basement and the King wanted you in a nice dress for the occasion?
"A party," I gasped.
"Black tie," he managed.
That set us off again. My ribs ached and my eyes streamed and we just stood there in a dungeon cell, laughing like lunatics, holding hands, because the world had finally gotten so cruel it had become hilarious.
It passed the way those things do—in shuddering waves, each one smaller, until we were just breathing. Standing in the quiet. His thumb running over my knuckles.
"Okay," I said. "Okay."
But at least I'd be out of this cell. At least I'd be with Serenya and Maxx.
And at least, in a room full of enemies, I'd have my people beside me.
Eryndor walked me up four flights of stairs. My legs shook on every one. The palace light—golden, warm, obscenely beautiful after days of torchfire and stone—made my eyes water again.
The door to Serenya's room was at the end of the corridor. Two guards flanking it. One of them looked at the black lines still visible on my throat and took a step back.
Good.
Eryndor opened the door for me and Serenya saw me first.
I was halfway through the doorway, still blinking at light that wasn't torchfire, when she crossed the room in three strides and grabbed me so hard my ribs creaked.
She didn't say anything. Just held on—fingers knotted in the back of my tunic, face buried in my neck, her whole body shaking with the kind of silence that meant she'd been saving this for days.
I held her back, buried my face in her hair, and breathed in herbs and ink and the faint warm smell of dog. Something in my chest unlocked so fast it hurt.
Maxx stood behind her. His knuckles were scabbed over—split and rehealed and split again, like he'd been hitting something solid for a long time. He didn't hug me. Just looked at my arms, where the fading black lines still mapped the corruption's path, and his jaw went tight.
"You look like shit," he said.
"You look worse."
"Impossible." But his voice broke on it.
Serenya pulled back. Held my face in both hands. Her eyes moved across my features, reading the story my skin was telling.
"How bad?" she whispered.
"I'm here." I covered her hands with mine. "I'm here and I'm not leaving again."
She nodded. Didn't believe me. Held on anyway.
**
The grey outfits arrived at noon.
Three of them. A shapeless wool tunic for Maxx, and shapeless wool dresses for Serenya and me—all with high collars and long sleeves, designed to make us look like servants who'd wandered into the wrong party. A note accompanied them in the King's elegant script:
Appropriate attire for guests of uncertain status. You will comport yourselves with dignity befitting your position.
Serenya held hers up. The fabric sagged mournfully.
"I think a potato would be insulted to be stored in this."
Maxx poked at his. "Is this... is this burlap? Did he send us burlap to wear to a ball?"
I stared at the pile of grey wool on the bed. The cuffs were gone now—replaced by Suppressors stationed outside our door. Couldn't have guests in chains at a ball.
Defiance stirred and I smiled.
"You know what?" I picked up my dress. Held it at arm's length. "One good thing came out of my little... episode."
"The part where you turned a General into dust?" Maxx asked. "Or the part where you terrified an entire court into collective incontinence?"
"The part where we learned the Suppressors can't actually hold us." I dropped the dress on the floor. Stepped on it. "I ate their magic, Maxx. Devoured it. Which means..."
Understanding dawned on his face. Then delight.
"Which means their dampening fields are suggestions, not rules."
"Exactly." I grinned. "We're not wearing grey pillowcases to a ball."
Maxx cracked his knuckles like a pianist preparing for a concerto.
"Ladies. I'm going to need you to trust me."
"The last time you said that, I ended up hiding in a laundry cart," Serenya pointed out.
"This will be significantly more glamorous." He circled her, eyes narrowed, already seeing what the rest of us couldn't. "What's your favorite color?"
Serenya’s eyes lit up and she clasped her hands together.
"Petrol blue!" Both Maxx and I stared at her for a moment. "With a contrasting rust orange sash!" She was bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Maxx's eyebrows shot up. "You've been planning this outfit your entire life, haven't you?"
Serenya's cheeks flushed. "I just... I know what I like."
"You don't like things, you curate them." He was grinning now. "Bold. Unexpected. I'm genuinely intimidated."
He turned to me. "And you?"
"Black."
"Predictable, but I respect it." His fingers twitched. "Any requests? Specific styles? Necklines that will make a certain betrothed prince swallow his tongue?"
"Maxx."
"I'm just saying. If we're committing crimes against the King's dress code, we might as well commit them thoroughly."
The glamour started at our feet.
Maxx's power was subtle, artistic, layering illusion over reality like paint on canvas. The grey wool shimmered. Shifted. Began to transform.
Serenya gasped.
Her garment deepened into petrol blue—rich and dark, pooling and tightening until it fit her like a glove.
Bands of rust orange silk wound around the bodice, cinching her waist, the contrast sharp enough to catch the eye and hold it.
The high collar melted away, revealing collarbone, throat, the delicate slope of her shoulders.
Sleeves tightened into elegant ruched gathers at the wrists.
It was no longer a garment, but a declaration.
"Maxx," she whispered. "It's beautiful."
"I know." He was already working on mine, tongue between his teeth in concentration. "Hold still. This one's trickier."
My dress fought the glamour at first—the Suppressor’s magic flickered—but I pushed back. And watched as grey wool became black silk, rich and dark as midnight, with silver threading that echoed the corruption lines still fading on my skin.
Turning scars into art.
The neckline plunged just enough to be dangerous. The back was open, bordered by delicate silver chains. When I moved, the fabric moved with me—liquid, lethal, the kind of dress that made people forget to breathe.
"Holy shit," Maxx breathed. "I'm a genius."
I caught a glimpse of myself in the window and smiled. Black silk. Silver chains. Weapon-grade beauty.
Your move, prince.
"Humble as always."
"Humility is for people who aren't this talented." He snapped his fingers. "Masks. We need masks."
The masks were his masterpiece.
Serenya's was delicate gold filigree with tiny garnets dotting the corners. It made her look like a winter spirit—otherworldly, untouchable, the kind of creature you'd find in old stories about fae who stole hearts.
Mine was darker. Black metal worked into the shape of feathers, with obsidian beads that caught the light. It covered half my face—left my mouth free, and made me look like some sort of shadow-wraith that had crawled out of a nightmare and decided to attend a party to scare the mortals.
"You look terrifying," Serenya said admiringly.
"Thank you."
"I mean that as a compliment."
"I know."
Maxx saved the best for himself. The grey tunic became a black jacket that hung open, trailing past his hips, revealing the intricate tattoos that wound up his torso.
No shirt beneath—just ink and skin and casual confidence that made people forget how to form sentences.
Dark trousers sat low on his hips. His mask was minimal—black, elegant, making his jaw look sharper and his grin more dangerous.
"I look incredible," he announced to no one in particular.
"You look like you're about to ruin someone's marriage," I said.
"Ideally several."
A bark interrupted us.
The princess's dog—apparently now Serenya's dog, thanks to Eryndor's smuggling operation—had been watching the transformation from her pile of blankets in the corner. Now she bounded over, tail wagging, clearly sensing that something exciting was happening.
"Oh no." Serenya scooped her up. "We can't leave her out."
"Serenya. She's a dog."
"She's my dog. And she's coming with us."
"Wait—" I held up a hand. "The princess. Won't she recognize...?"
"Memory charm." Serenya was already cuddling the dog closer. "Eryndor took care of it. As far as she knows, she never had a pet."
Maxx whistled low. "The prince erased a whole dog from someone's memory just to make you happy. That's either romantic or a flammable red flag."
"Why not both?" Serenya beamed.
I looked at Maxx. Maxx looked at me.
"Well can you...?" Serenya probed.
"Glamour a dog?" He was already grinning. "I've never tried. Let's find out."
Five minutes later, the ridiculous creature was wearing a tiny blue cape that matched Serenya's dress, with a silver collar that sparkled and a miniature mask perched between her ears.
She looked absolutely absurd.
She also looked delighted.
"This is the greatest thing I've ever done," Maxx declared.