Three days later, a summon arrived.
I didn't need to read the entire thing.
One look at the gold-threaded seal, and I knew.
A banquet.
Celebrating the "peace" of the realm.
Sure.
Because nothing screamed peace like sending assassins out while pouring wine at home.
I stood in front of my cracked mirror, adjusting the simple black gown I'd been given.
It wasn't fancy.
It wasn't meant to be.
I was meant to blend in.
A shadow at the edge of the court's light.
Lucas, of course, looked like he'd been born to walk into royal halls —
tall, lazy, dressed in black and silver, his smirk firmly in place.
He caught me staring.
"What?" he asked, tilting his head just slightly.
"Nothing," I muttered, straightening the dagger strapped under my sleeve.
"Just wondering how you can look smug even when you're supposed to look polite."
He grinned wider.
"Talent."
Tch.
What a pain.
The banquet was in full swing by the time we entered the Grand Hall.
Laughter.
Music.
The clink of goblets and whispered lies masked behind jeweled smiles.
I could practically taste the tension.
Everyone pretending.
Everyone was waiting for the other person's slip up.
Lucas leaned down slightly as we passed through the velvet-draped entrance.
"Notice how no one's drinking too deeply?" he murmured.
I nodded once, my gaze scanning the room.
"They're all too afraid to loosen their tongues," I said.
"Smart."
He chuckled low under his breath.
"Fear is better than loyalty anyway," he said lightly.
I moved toward the shadowed side of the hall, slipping between gossiping courtiers and stiff-backed generals.
Across the gleaming marble floor, the King sat on his obsidian throne.
He caught my eye for a single, breathless second.
He had a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
I bowed slightly and then I dipped my head slightly and turned away.
Lucas and I took up a place near the massive carved pillars, blending into the background like two well-dressed wolfs.
He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he couldn't be bothered to care about any of it.
I kept my focus sharp.
Because while the court drank and danced —
the King's black-cloaked forces were already riding.
Already hunting.
Already tearing through Raventhorn.
"Think they'll bring Everan back alive?" Lucas asked quietly, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Depends," I said, scanning the room again.
"On whether he fights like a lord... or like a cornered wolf."
Lucas hummed thoughtfully.
"I'm betting on the latter."
I didn't argue.
Because I was betting the same thing.
The night dragged on.
Toasts were raised.
Empty smiles flashed.
The nobles danced, careful and mechanical like puppets on strings.
All while death rode silently beyond the borders.
All while a kingdom shifted under their jeweled shoes.
The music was still playing when the first whispers started.
Soft at first.
Barely noticeable under the hum of conversation and the clink of goblets.
A ripple through the golden crowd.
The court dancers faltered — just slightly — missing a step, recovering too quickly.
So did Lucas.
He leaned closer, voice so low only I could hear.
"Something's happened."
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
A figure moved through the banquet hall — swift, silent, cloaked in the colors of the King's private guard.
He didn't stop for wine.
Didn't bow to the nobles.
He went straight to the throne.
Straight to the King.
The King looked fiercer before the messenger even reached him.
It was a small thing.
A subtle thing.
But it made the hall go still.
Like a string pulled too tight.
The music faltered mid-note.
The harpist fumbled.
A goblet dropped to the floor and shattered.
No one moved to clean it up.
No one dared.
The messenger knelt at the foot of the black dais, head bowed, and held up a sealed scroll.
The King stepped down from the throne with slow, deliberate steps, every movement laced with that terrible, effortless authority.
He took the scroll.
Broke the seal with a flick of his fingers.
Unrolled the parchment.
I watched his face carefully.
Every tiny shift.
Every breath.
But the King didn't flinch.
Didn't frown.
Didn't smile.
His gray eyes moved across the words like a blade across skin.
And then —
slowly —
He lowered the scroll.
"Lord Everan," the King said, his voice cold and carrying across the stunned hall,
"has fallen. He committed treason and he has been captured for further interrogation."
Not a shout.
Not a roar.
Just words.
Heavy enough to crush a kingdom.
The silence that followed was almost worse than any scream.
Several nobles turned pale.
I exchanged a glance with Lucas.
He was smiling — faintly, lazily — like he'd known it would end this way all along.
The King stepped back up onto his throne, the scroll still crumpled loosely in one hand.
His gaze swept over the gathered nobles like a blade.
"Why the dull faces? Celebrate now ," he said.
His voice was almost... amused.
A warning dressed up like a command.
"Tonight, we feast."
"And tomorrow —"
his gaze sharpened like frostbite,
"We'll do whatever but feast tonight. It's a command."
The musicians scrambled to pick up their instruments again.
The court tried to pretend.
Laughter rose — brittle and forced.
Wine flowed faster.
The dancers spun like marionettes.
But the fear didn't leave.
It thickened.