CHAPTER SIX
A Dance of Knives
LUCIAN
My court responded to possible treason by holding a banquet.
Tradition was a disease no king had successfully cured.
The Winter Conclave feast filled Moon Court with too much wine, too much silk, and enough concealed weapons to arm a small rebellion. The council insisted canceling would “signal instability.”
Apparently public denial was a recognized branch of governance.
Seraphine arrived late.
The room noticed.
So did I.
She wore dark green, not court silver. The dress was simple compared with the noblewomen around her, fitted at the waist and loose enough to hide at least two knives. Her hair, usually braided for travel, fell over one shoulder in dark waves.
My wolf surged with immediate approval.
I reminded him that she had tried to put steel through my heart four days ago.
He remained unconcerned.
“Close your mouth,” Darius said beside me.
“It is closed.”
“Spiritually, then.”
I considered demoting him.
Malrec approached Seraphine before I could.
I felt her tension through the bond.
Not fear.
Readiness.
I crossed the room.
“Lady Vale,” Malrec was saying, “I hope the palace has treated you with proper dignity despite these unfortunate circumstances.”
“Being sentenced to death by ancient law has been wonderfully dignified.”
He smiled thinly. “The moon’s will often feels cruel from the limited view of mortals.”
“Then perhaps the moon should hire a better translator.”
I arrived in time to see Elowen hide a laugh behind her wineglass.
Malrec bowed to me and withdrew.
Seraphine watched him go. “He smells different tonight.”
“What?”
“Same incense. Something under it.”
She leaned closer before apparently remembering that proximity had consequences.
The bond sparked between us.
Her eyes flashed.
“Blue myrrh?” I asked.
“No. Metal. Bitter.”
“Wolfsbane.”
Her attention sharpened.
At the far end of the hall, musicians began a court waltz.
I held out my hand.
She stared at it.
“No.”
“We need to move closer to Malrec without appearing suspicious.”
“I can walk.”
“So can assassins.”
“I am an assassin.”
“Exactly.”
She looked around. Half the room was watching us.
“You planned this.”
“The musicians did.”
“I hate you.”
“Dance first.”
Her hand landed in mine.
The contact hit like fire.
I had felt attraction before. Desire. Hunger. None of it resembled this.
The bond did not erase choice; it magnified awareness. The heat of her palm. The quickness of her pulse. The way her breath changed when my hand settled at her waist.
Her expression warned me not to mention any of it.
I led her into the dance.
“You’re surprisingly competent,” she said.
“At dancing?”
“At not stepping on me.”
“I was trained by six tutors and one terrifying aunt.”
“Your childhood sounds tragic.”
“It had moments.”
We turned with the music.
Malrec stood near the eastern arch, speaking to Councilor Voss.
Seraphine’s gaze passed over him casually.
“His right sleeve,” she murmured.
A dark stain marked the cuff.
“Oil?”
“Could be.”
We turned again.
Elowen intercepted her father near the wine table. Malrec stepped around her too quickly.
A small silver vial slipped from his sleeve.
It hit the carpet without sound.
Seraphine saw it.
So did I.
We continued dancing.
“You step on my foot and I kill you,” she said through a smile.
“Your romantic instincts require work.”
“Fate should have chosen someone less annoying.”
“On that, we agree.”
We passed the fallen vial.
She let go of my hand at the turn, dipped low as if part of the dance, and swept it into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
Smooth.
I pulled her back upright.
For one beat, we ended closer than necessary.
Her face was inches from mine.
The room disappeared.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth.
Mine did the same.
Then she stepped back hard enough to break the moment.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I didn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“So were you.”
Her cheeks warmed.
Victory was brief but satisfying.
We reached the edge of the floor and slipped into a side gallery.
Seraphine opened the vial and smelled it carefully.
Her face changed.
“Not wolfsbane.”
“What?”
“Something worse.”
She tipped a single grain into her palm.
The powder was gray-black.
“Moonrot,” she said. “A healer’s term. It attacks the wolf first. Causes fever, hallucinations, loss of control. Enough can force a partial shift.”
“Like the ferals.”
“Not alone. But mixed with blue myrrh and blood magic?”
Footsteps sounded in the gallery.
Seraphine closed her hand around the vial.
A young servant appeared carrying a tray.
He looked at us.
His eyes were white.
He dropped the tray.
Then he lunged at Seraphine with a silver knife.
I moved.
The blade meant for her ribs entered my side instead.
Pain flashed white.
Seraphine shouted my name.
The servant jerked the knife free and tried again.
I caught his wrist, but my strength vanished too quickly.
Poison.
Darius crashed into the gallery from the ballroom and struck the attacker down.
I dropped to one knee.
Seraphine was suddenly in front of me, hands pressed against my wound.
Her face had gone pale.
“Lucian.”
The bond burned with her fear.
Not fear of me.
For me.
The realization was strangely comforting as darkness closed over the room.