Page 18 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

Behind him, the olive-skinned Fae raises a hand, bringing it to his lips. A sharp whistle splits the air. A scuffle sounds near the doors.

I turn, and my stomach clenches.

A third Fae strides in from the shadows, his tall, muscular physique on full display in form-fitting leathers with two massive broadswords poking out above his back. His hair is the same black as the others’, but cropped short in tight curls against his scalp. He drags something—no, someone—behind him.

A body.

Blood crusts the man’s hair and streaks his slackened face. His chin brushes his chest, blocking his features from view.

I scan his body for wounds. His limbs are intact. His clothes are filthy, but not torn. He must’ve suffered a blow to the head. He needs to lie down, not be dragged around like a rag doll.

Magic buzzes in my palms, instinct flaring before I can think. I lurch forward, one step⁠—

Lev’s grip on my elbow yanks me back.

“Don’t be stupid,” he growls in my ear.

I freeze. Shame floods me.

What in the hells am I doing?

The third Fae locks eyes with me as he walks by, tugging the man like a sack of meat. There’s a glint in his stare—curious.

I drop my gaze.

Then realization hits. I’m the only person standing who isn’t a soldier or an Elder. No wonder I’m catching attention.

I tug against Lev’s grip until he lets go, and I lower myself back onto the bench, moving slowly to not draw anyone else’s gaze.

Once I’m seated, Ferria’s hand finds mine. She laces our fingers and holds tight. I return her squeeze. Then we watch as the injured man is dragged to the stage. His head lolls. I flinch when he’s tossed onto the floor, his head banging with a loud thwack.

General Ironheart steps forward, his frame taut. “Who is this?”

“A rebel spy,” the pale Fae replies, his voice as cold and biting as ice. “He was caught attempting to intercept a shipment of astlerium before it reached our border.”

I blink. Rebels targeting astlerium? Why?

“Deplorable, my lord,” Elder Quarry chokes out.

“Indeed.” The Fae’s tone grows colder. “During our most recent interrogation, only one word slipped from the bastard’s lips before he lost consciousness.”

Shadows begin to creep across the floor and up the walls, making the light flicker as they hover over the sconces. My arms start to tremble.

“A-and what was that, my lord?” Quarry stammers, his wide eyes locked on the Fae’s power slithering closer to the stage.

“Verdanthia,” he hisses, ire and hatred lacing all four syllables.

Darkness slams over the room. Someone shrieks, the sound splintering into a chorus of panicked cries.

“Shit,” Anton grunts beside Ferria. The curse carries a hint of irritation rather than fear.

“We would never!” Whitestone yells into the void.

The Fae’s voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “And yet…you have.”

Chairs scrape. The air thrums with chaos—boots pounding, bodies colliding, the sharp tang of fear rising like smoke.

Lev grabs my arm, ripping me away from Ferria. “We need to go.”