Chapter 45
The moment we step into the grandeur of the Harvest Court’s charity ball, a sea of faces turns our way.
Excitement buzzes through the air, and my stomach churns with the sudden onslaught of attention.
Rich ladies in gowns that cost more than an average person’s yearly wages bat their lashes at Revelin and Khol, while old men with more money than manners leer at me, their gazes crawling over my skin like insects.
Gross in so, so many ways; I might vomit on this expensive marble floor.
I feel the weight of my brass knuckles against the silk lining of my pockets—a forbidden comfort in this den of wolves dressed like sheep. My fingers twitch with the urge to make use of them, but I restrain myself, pressing the cool metal into my palm as a reminder of the control I must keep.
“Sassy, you good?” Khol murmurs, his voice a low thrum that cuts through the clamor.
I nod, even though my teeth are clenched tight enough to crack. “Fine,” I lie. It’s not the crowd that unsettles me—I can handle a mob. It’s the way they look at us, like we’re exotic animals on display, ready for their entertainment.
As if sensing my internal struggle, Khol edges closer, his presence a solid reassurance at my side. Dezi and Tiernan instinctively close ranks, flanking me with a protective stance that’s both unnecessary and strangely comforting.
“Easy, witchling,” Dezi says with a chuckle, eyeing my balled fists. “Remember, no brawling at the ball. We wouldn’t want to ruin your lovely dress.”
“Or our lovely faces,” Tiernan adds, his light tone failing to mask the sharpness in his eyes. He’s watching the crowd as much as he’s watching me, always on alert for threats that lurk beneath the surface.
Therapy is probably warranted because I like them both pretty and looking rough.
I let out a huff, keeping my hands in my pockets despite the itch to lash out. “I know how to behave,” I mutter, though part of me itches to prove them wrong—to show this fawning crowd just how quickly I can turn from a damsel to a demon.
But as we wade deeper into the throng, I remind myself why we’re here.
This isn’t about me or my pride. We have to listen for clues and maintain our cover with Rev’s band, so I need to play the part—even if it means swallowing my instincts and enduring the leers and whispers with a smile plastered on my face.
“Stick with me. I’ve had to do this shit for my uncle a million times,” Khol says softly, reading my tension like an open book. “We’ll get through this together.”
Slipping through the gilded doors into the reception area, we’re immediately wrapped in a cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses.
My fingers twitch inside my dress pockets as I plaster on a smile that feels more like a grimace.
Dezi nods at me, a silent signal to keep it together, and I nod back, albeit begrudgingly.
“Smile for the cameras, Sassypants,” Khol murmurs, his voice barely audible above the din. “We’re just peacocks among pigeons here.”
“Peacocks with sharp talons,” I remind him under my breath, as another too-eager fan brushes against my arm, leaving a trail of cloying perfume in her wake.
We navigate the sea of opulence, our group forming a tight-knit formation amidst the ostentatious crowd.
I shake hands with smiling tycoons whose eyes glint with unspoken business deals, their saccharine compliments sticking to me like cobwebs.
I can’t help but scan the room for an escape route, but Dezi’s hand at the small of my back steadies me.
“Look alive, Knuckles. Here come the court vultures,” Tiernan whispers with a side glance as we approach a cluster of minor royals.
Their shiny jewels and over-polished smiles do nothing to hide the hunger in their eyes for fresh gossip.
I exchange pleasantries, each word feeling like a stone in my mouth.
I’m overstimulated and annoyed, which is never a good thing. If I could just—
Suddenly, I feel eyes on me and I see Khorinea, draped in what looks like the aftermath of a violent tussle between a curtain and a chandelier.
She parades past us, her sneer almost as twisted as the nest atop her head.
The evil that clings to her—like moss to a dank wall—makes me shudder inwardly.
Khol catches my eye, and we share a moment of mutual disdain.
“Regal as a dumpster rat,” I snark quietly, earning a stifled snort from Tiernan.
“Focus, witchling,” Dezi chides softly, but his lips twitch with amusement. “We’re not here to critique fashion disasters.”
Speak for yourself, old man. I’m all about fucking up her day.
My gaze flicks up to the balcony where Amethyst and Ember stand in close conference, their heads tilted together like scheming sisters. The pieces fall into place; Dezi’s suspicions were right. There’s more at play here than just charity and champagne.
“Looks like you were onto something with those two,” I say, nudging Dezi slightly.
“I’m rarely wrong,” he replies, eyes never leaving the pair. “Keep your eyes open and your senses sharp.”
Finally, we’re escorted to our table, positioned strategically with a clear view of the dais. The royal family is impossible to miss, their display of wealth and power as subtle as a sledgehammer. Eight heirs sit like prized trophies, their jeweled crowns catching the light with a blinding sparkle.
“Disgusting,” I mutter, unable to mask my distaste. “Could they be any more ostentatious?”
“Maybe not,” Dezi responds, leaning in close so only I can hear. “But remember, this is a goldmine for information. We need to see beyond the glitter.”
As if on cue, Revelin engages a nearby baron in conversation, drawing attention away from us. Dezi and Tiernan make use of the distraction, moving to converse casually with members of the security team. They’re like shadows—present but unnoticed—as they gather intel without raising suspicion.
“Remember why we’re here,” Dezi reminds me once more before slipping away into the crowd.
I nod, taking a deep breath as I survey the room, the weight of the brass knuckles in my pocket grounding me. For now, I’ll play the part of the dutiful guest, all while watching, waiting for when the masks come off and the actual game begins.
“Fiadh? Oh, Fiadh, wait.” The voice slithers through the din of idle chatter and clinking glasses like a serpent seeking its prey. My name, wrapped in faux admiration, sets my teeth on edge.
Who the fuck is yelling for me?
I pivot on my heel to face the man Revelin introduced as Lord Pemberleigh, his oily smile as wide as the sash across his portly belly.
He’s the epitome of ambition, a courtier who’d sell his own mother for a whiff of royal favor.
His gaze lingers a little too long on the cut of my dress, and I feel the brass knuckles pressing into my palm.
“Lord Pemberleigh,” I acknowledge with a nod, my voice cool.
“Your exploits are the talk of the court,” he croons, stepping uncomfortably close. “Might I entice you with a dance? It would do wonders for my reputation.”
“Sadly, your reputation is not my concern,” I retort, but before I can excuse myself, Dezi is at my side, his arm slipping protectively around my waist.
“Lord Pemberleigh,” Dezi interjects smoothly, “I fear Fiadh is quite spoken for this evening. Perhaps another time?”
Tiernan appears on my other flank, his presence an unspoken threat. Pemberleigh’s eyes narrow, but he knows better than to press his luck.
“Of course,” he says, though his tone suggests anything but acquiescence. “Enjoy the festivities.” With a curt nod, he retreats into the throng.
“Time to get some air,” Tiernan suggests, and without waiting for my agreement, guides us out of the ballroom.
I really might fall in love with this guy if he keeps reading my mind like this.
We enter an adjacent gallery, the sudden quiet a balm to my frayed nerves. The room is vast; the walls adorned with masterpieces that speak of history and wealth. Revelin lets out a low whistle, his grin returning as he takes in the array of art.
“Ah, this is much better than the tank full of sharks we just swam through, don’t you think?” he says, casting a meaningful glance at where we left Pemberleigh behind.
“Agreed,” I say with a sigh, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. Here, among the silent witnesses of canvas and stone, I can pretend, if only for a moment, that the ball and its players are worlds away.
We drift through the gallery, admiring a tapestry here, a painting there. The history of battles and beauty woven into each piece captivates me until we come across a display that demands our collective attention.
“Look at this,” Revelin murmurs, drawing us toward a pedestal where a chalice rests. It’s exquisite, wrought from goblin silver, so pure it seems to glow from within. Jewels adorn its surface, each one catching the light and throwing splinters of color across the room.
“Wow, that’s gotta be centuries old,” Tiernan breathes out, his hand reaching for his phone. Dezi joins him, both angling for the best shot.
I can’t resist the pull of the craftsmanship, the allure of something so ancient and fine. As their cameras click, my fingers stretch out, drawn by the whisper of legacy and power etched into its form.
I need to sense if it’s got as much magic as I think.
The moment my skin brushes against the goblin silver, reality buckles. A gasp is wrenched from my lungs as we’re yanked from the gallery’s quiet scrutiny into a maelstrom of distorted sounds and colors. My stomach lurches; I’m tumbling through an abyss that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago.
“Sassy!” I hear Khol’s voice, distant and strained, as if he, too, is fighting the pull of this unnatural vortex.
The world rights itself with bone-jarring suddenness. We crash onto solid ground, the impact driving the air from my lungs in a pained whoosh. Grit digs into my palms where I’ve thrown out my hands to break the fall. My ears ring, the silence oppressive after the cacophony of our passage.
I blink rapidly, trying to clear the blur of daylight that replaces the soft glow of the gallery.
It’s too bright, too fierce, and it sears through my disorientation.
A weight settles on my chest, heavy as stone, and the edges of my vision darken.
I’m drowning in daylight, suffocated by the open sky that wasn’t there moments ago.
“Fiadh, stay with us,” Dezi’s voice cuts through the fog, but it’s like I’m hearing him from underwater.
“Where the hell are we?” Tiernan’s question seems to float above me.
“Give her space,” Revelin commands, his tone edged with concern.
But their words become muffled as my body succumbs to the shock. The last thing I feel before slipping into unconsciousness is Khol’s hand gripping mine, anchoring me in the chaos.
Then the world fades to black.
Looks like someone got us, anyway.
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