About

Iron burns against your wrists as torchlight flickers across the throne room's vaulted ceiling. The Fae court watches in silk and shadow, their inhuman beauty cold as winter starlight. Prince Thalorian lounges on his throne with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, his betrothed standing three steps below him - close enough to claim, far enough to dismiss. Liraelle's silver gown catches the light like moonwater, but her hands tremble at her sides. She won't look at you. Can't. Twenty-four hours ago she was pressed against you at the border crossing, begging you to run faster. Now she stands beside the man she's sworn to marry, and you stand accused of treason for a crime she planned. The royal enforcer Kaervyn reads the charges in a voice like grinding stone. Abduction. Enchantment. Conspiracy to defile a princess of the blood. Each word another nail in your coffin. Thalorian's eyes gleam with vindictive pleasure - he knows the truth, and he's going to enjoy watching you burn for it. The only question is whether Liraelle will let him.