Chapter 41
Ipush back from the ornate breakfast table, its surface now cluttered with the remnants of a meal hastily eaten and barely tasted.
Revelin’s brow is furrowed in thought, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the dark wood.
He’s dressed for diplomacy today, cloaked in black and silver pinstripe pants and a silk shirt with the tattoos that mark his princely status showing.
I study him briefly; even his attire can’t mask the tension coiling in his shoulders.
My confident, brash friend and coven mate is worried he’ll be rejected again.
“Ready to face the council?” I ask, standing and straightening my bespoke vest—a plain thing compared to his finery, but it’s not my job to stand out.
He nods, though his gaze lingers on the empty plate before him, as if he hopes for answers to appear alongside the crumbs. “Time to face the music,” he replies, but there’s a hesitance in his voice that tugs at my resolve.
As we exit the restaurant, the clack of our boots against the marble floors echoes through the sprawling lobby of the fancy hotel.
I can’t shake the unease that’s settled in my gut.
Memories of past events in Arrowwood and Goldgarde flashing like warning signs.
The potential for disaster looms over us, a specter that could derail the week’s carefully planned festivities or worse—leave Revelin exposed to the fickle whims of the press and the public’s scrutiny.
“Tiernan,” Revelin says, breaking into my thoughts, “you’re sure everything will go smoothly?”
“On this trip? Fuck no. Nothing has gone to plan,” I reply with a half-smile meant to reassure both him and myself. “But I have contingencies.”
With a quick glance around to ensure no prying ears are within range, I slip my phone from my pocket.
The sleek device feels cold and out of place in the realm of Faerie, yet it’s my lifeline to the outside world.
Tag, my tiger employee who’s more shadow than man, would know how to reach Esmerelda Salazar—the only person capable of spinning straw into gold with managing events of this magnitude.
The only female heir to one of the Seven Families will have someone I can bring in to get between my friend, these crooked politicians, his abusive father, and his soon-to-be-dead manager.
My fingers fly over the screen, composing a message with all the urgency I can muster without sounding desperate.
BOSS: Need Esmerelda Salazar’s expertise for the prince’s tour. Issues with Amethyst. Contact me.
Sent.
The word flashes on the screen, and a weight lifts from my chest, even as additional concerns pile on.
If anyone can maneuver us through this minefield, it’s Esmerelda.
She’s handled her misogynistic father and brothers will immense skill as she battled to be chosen as the official heir.
Her calm demeanor during their most spectacular galas turned potential disasters into triumphs with her cunning strategies and silver tongue.
Yes, I think she’ll have the hook-up to someone who can fix this bullshit.
“Something up?” Revelin inquires, eyeing my phone.
“Insurance,” I say, slipping the device back into my pocket. “We’re playing higher stakes than usual. We can’t afford missteps.”
He nods, understanding the subtext. We’ve been through enough close calls to appreciate the value of a well-placed ally.
“Rev,” I murmur as we ascend the stone steps of Amber Hollow’s town hall, “I’ve got contingency plans. If anything goes sideways, follow my lead.”
The Prince offers me a tight nod, his azure eyes reflecting a mingling of surprise and relief.
The weight of promises made—to a father who rules with iron resolve, to a new family, and to his fans—rests heavily upon him.
I can almost feel the pressure squeezing him as we stride into the marble foyer.
As we pass under the archway, my gaze flickers across the space, instinctively cataloging potential threats or eavesdroppers.
It’s not just about being watched; it’s about knowing who might be watching.
In Faerie, every mirror has ears, and every shadow could be a spy.
The glint of a camera lens catches my attention, but so does the subtle shift of a painting’s eyes—a portrait of a long-deceased dignitary that seems all too interested in our arrival.
These motherfuckers are testing me and I haven’t even met them yet.
“Keep your voice down when we’re inside,” I mutter, less for Revelin’s sake and more as a reminder to myself. Secrecy is our ally today.
We’re ushered through a labyrinthine series of corridors, the opulence of the conference room at odds with the Harvest Court’s usual frugality.
A grand chandelier bathes the room in golden light, casting elongated shadows across the walls adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of past glories.
The chairs are plush, inviting, but we do not sit—not yet.
Mayor Hawthorne stands as we enter, a man whose persona screams ‘harvest festival’—round-cheeked and ebullient, his ruddy complexion akin to the ripest apple in the orchard.
He begins with a flourish, reciting traditions and treaties with the eagerness of a child recounting their favorite fairy tale.
But there’s a practiced air to his enthusiasm; this is a performance well-rehearsed.
“Amber Hollow values its customs,” he booms, gesturing broadly, “and we take pride in upholding the treaties that have sustained peace for generations.”
I can’t help but wonder if those same treaties will protect us from the political quagmire threatening to suck us under.
Then she steps forward—Vice Mayor Ember Sagebrush, her name as fitting as the fiery cascade of hair that frames her face.
She’s like a walking embodiment of the deep woods—mysterious and undeniably captivating.
Her presence alone seems to pull the oxygen from the room, leaving me fighting the urge to bolt—or to bash my head against the solid oak table just to break the spell she casts.
Now it’s all becoming clear.
“Prince Revelin, Tiernan,” she purrs, her voice a melody that promises secrets and seduction. “We should review the week’s agenda.”
Ember Sagebrush leans in, her voice wrapping around each word like a vine as she details the week’s events.
“A charity ball to honor the Harvest Court’s generosity,” she begins, and I can practically hear the rustle of silk gowns and clinking of fine crystal in her timbre.
“Visits to three of Amber Hollow’s esteemed educational institutions will follow. ”
I fix my gaze on the paper where the schedule is printed; the words blurring before me. Three schools. A knot forms in my stomach—there are four schools in Amber Hollow.
They’re excluding one; I bet I know why.
Under the table, I slide my phone from my pocket and type swiftly, a silent plea for intervention. Tag must sense the urgency when he reads, ‘Need Esmerelda Salazar. Tonight. Secure line.’ I slip the device away just as Ember finishes with a flourish, oblivious to the undercurrents she’s stirred.
“Excluding Willowshade Academy is not an oversight we can afford,” I interject, my voice calm but insistent. Revelin’s eyes flick to mine, a mix of gratitude and relief in their depths. “All schools deserve the prince’s attention. It speaks to the inclusivity of his tour.”
“Indeed,” Revelin adds, a firm edge to his tone that wasn’t there moments ago. “Every child in Amber Hollow is important. Our presence should send that message unequivocally.”
The room falls into a tense silence, the weight of diplomacy hanging thick in the air. Ember’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but she concedes with a nod. I know we’ve won this battle, but the war—the careful dance of politics and perceptions—is far from over.
We stride out of the ornate conference room, the heavy door closing behind us with a sound that signifies both an end and a beginning. The air is thick with unspoken tension, but as we distance ourselves from the chamber of veiled threats and forced cordiality, I feel a breath of freedom.
“Amethyst wouldn’t just skip out on a meeting like this,” I murmur, more to myself than to Revelin. “It’s too deliberate.”
“Competition or collusion?” Revelin inquires, his voice low, catching the thread of my thoughts with ease.
“Either way, it puts us at a disadvantage.” My eyes narrow as I consider the implications. “Ember’s play for exclusivity is no coincidence.”
Revelin’s jaw tightens, and I can see the cogs turning in his head, the weight of his crown invisible but ever-present. We pause by a window overlooking the town square, the bustle of Amber Hollow oblivious to the machinations within the town hall.
“Tiernan, if things escalate—”
“Then we escalate our response,” I cut in, confidence bolstering my words. “I’ve reached out to Esmerelda Salazar. If anyone can navigate these treacherous waters, she can.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze intense. “You always seem to have an ace up your sleeve.”
“I hope it’s enough to trump their game.” I turn away from the window, facing the challenges ahead. “For now, let’s focus on what we can control—the week’s events.”
We move through the corridors, our footsteps echoing against the stone. “The press will look for any cracks in our armor,” I continue, “so we give them none. The charity ball and school visits must go off without a hitch.”
“Every school,” Revelin asserts firmly, the prince within him rising above the turmoil. “No exceptions.”
“Exactly. People have long branded you the playboy prince of excess, and you let them because you don’t care about the credit.
” I can sense the faintest easing of tension in Revelin’s posture, a testament to the power of a well-laid plan.
“But you have to win their hearts, not just by being a star and a hot dude—you need them to be loyal, so this kind of shit doesn’t affect your plans for your dad. ”
Revelin nods, the resolve in his eyes matching my own. “I know.”
As we exit the town hall, the sunlight hits us, casting long shadows on the path before us.
In those shadows, I see the outline of our strategy, the shape of the days to come—a meticulous map of diplomacy and defiance.
Our car pulls up and we get in, settling into the seats to head back to the hotel.
I tap my fingers lightly on the leather seat, feeling the hum of the car as it glides through Amber Hollow. Revelin sits beside me, his gaze fixed beyond the tinted windows, taking in the city’s myriad layers—a patchwork quilt of splendor and squalor.
I have an idea.
“Driver, let’s take the scenic route,” I instruct, knowing full well that ‘scenic’ holds a different connotation within these urban confines.
The car veers left, smoothly transitioning from the opulent district into the stark contrast of narrow alleys and worn facades.
Time to kill isn’t always a curse; it offers the luxury of observation, a chance to see the hidden bones of this place.
We’re silent for a while, just watching. It’s not long before Revelin’s discomfort becomes palpable, his royal demeanor unsettled by the creeping decay in some quarters of his species’ domain.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, his voice laced with a growing anger. “How can such disparity exist so blatantly? The wealth of the Harvest Court is not meant to serve only the few.”
“Often, those who sit high upon the throne do not see the shadows cast by their light,” I say softly, meeting his troubled gaze. “You’ve been insulated from much of this, but seeing it now... it’s an opportunity, Revelin.”
“An opportunity?” He turns to me, skepticism etched across his face.
“Yes,” I nod, the car humming beneath us. “To understand your kingdom in the way you’re seeing this one. To be the change you always speak of. This tour isn’t just about pomp and pleasantries—it’s a wake-up call. Anything you see in the other courts surely exists in yours.”
He stares out of the window again, his eyes tracing the lines of hardship and hope intertwining on the streets. A deep breath in, and then out, as if he’s absorbing the very essence of the city and its people.
“Perhaps you’re right, Tiernan.” His voice has softened, contemplative. “Perhaps there’s more to ruling than grand gestures and solemn vows.”
“Exactly.” I smile, a flicker of pride warming me as I watch the potential bloom within him. “And we start by showing that no part of your future reign will be ignored or neglected.”
Revelin nods, his gaze now forward, where the city sprawls out in a tapestry of lives waiting to be acknowledged. There’s a new determination in his posture, a readiness to embrace the entirety of his legacy.
As the car winds through the streets, I can almost feel the cogs of change beginning to turn. With every mile, the prince beside me grows more resolute, and I know that together, we’re paving the way for something greater than either of us could have imagined.
That is, if we can survive this tour and get the monsters off our mates back before they kill us.