Ruenen’s cheeks warmed and he let loose a weak laugh. Children seemed a long way off in his mind.

“I believe we can come to terms that benefit both of our nations,” he said. “Lord Goso is the better man for such details.”

Goso puffed out his chest and beamed. A Greltan councilman put a cordial arm around his shoulders, and Goso was soon surrounded in hushed conversation with the men. His assistant bobbed around on the outside of the clump, handing Goso documents and papers and maps.

“We’ve prepared a feast for tonight in your honor, Your Highness,” Nieve said, smiling once again. “I’ve invited a small number of the court, as well as our council. Let us cast these bonds as we eat and drink.”

Goso and the council applauded. King Maes’ face stretched into a tight, quaking grin; his eyes crinkled with warmth.

“It would be an honor, Your Grace,” Ruenen said with a bow.

Nieve barked orders to servants who’d been standing at attention against the wall. They disappeared as Nieve took Ruenen’s arm and guided him through a set of large double doors, into the magnificent banquet hall. Several long tables were decorated with winter greens, holly, candles, and silver runners. Ice sculptures of dancing women and men stood dispersed around the room, dripping slow puddles onto the floor. Splendid savory smells wafted up from the kitchen somewhere. Servants were already at work pouring wine into goblets on the tables.

A group of spritely musicians sat in the corner. They struck up their instruments when Nieve stepped into the room. Ruenen’s hands yearned to strum against his lute, and his voice ached to sing along. That corner, with those musicians, was where he’d much rather be.

Instead, the Nevandian guards stationed themselves behind his chair as Ruenen took a seat at the head table. Goso and the Greltan council sat across from him, fully engaged in energetic discussion. Marai moved to stand with Aresti and Nosficio against the nearby wall, away from others, but still within reach of Ruenen. Nieve’s Master of Spies blended into a dark corner, but his hawkish eyes watched all movement in the room.

“Would you desire a change of clothes, Lady Marai?” Nieve asked before sitting. With a thoughtful expression, she watched Marai standing against the wall. “There’s an empty seat for you next to Lord Goso.”

Marai’s face remained emotionless. “I’m the prince’s guard, Your Grace.”

“You’re not dressed like a knight of the King’s Guard.” Nieve regarded Marai’s wrinkled, dirt-covered sack dress; the wild flyaways of her hair. “I believe I heard the prince say you were his closest friend and advisor. Should you not attend this feast as a lady of such standing?”

A muscle twitched in Marai’s jaw as she picked at her fingernails.

“That’s—”

“Very kind of you,” Ruenen leapt in. “Lady Marai isn’t one for formality, but she should attend the feast.”

Marai shot him a startled look.

“My daughter, Princess Elurra, is near your size,” Nieve said, inspecting Marai up and down again. “I shall have someone bring you up to change.”

Ruenen stifled a laugh at the thought that Marai was small enough to fit into the clothes of a thirteen-year-old.

Nieve called over a servant with a snap. Marai’s feet didn’t move until Ruenen waved her on and Nosficio nudged her. She scowled at them both, but followed the servant from the hall, back rigid. Marai knew better than to disobey the queen’s command, not when they needed Nieve’s support.

Aresti snickered.

The Queen’s penetrating gaze scrutinized her too, but in a different way. “You are not a lady?” The question was direct; her tone sensual.

Aresti’s dark eyes brightened at the queen’s question, a crooked smile blooming. “Not regularly, Your Grace. And certainly not tonight.”

A feline grin slid across Nieve’s lips. “What’s your name?”

“Aresti.”

“Well, Aresti, fae warrior and guard, enjoy the party. Feel free to sample our Northern delicacies.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.” Aresti’s eyes burned with fire.

The queen’s gaze slid from Aresti and landed on Nosficio. Wordless thoughts passed between them in silent conversation. Nieve certainly does have curious tastes . . .

Once seated, food began arriving on massive, shining silver platters. Roast boar, pheasant, steaks, and whole fish were placed before Ruenen and the other guests at the high table. Each dish was heavy with butter and fat, as most Northern dishes were. Delicious, but quite filling for someone used to leaner fare.

Ruenen was pulled into conversations that he understood little about. A wizened Greltan councilman asked him whether certain Nevandian tariffs would be lifted on goods. Another wanted to know more about Nevandia’s strategy in dealing with Varana. Ruenen tried not to appear too inexperienced, like a lamb surrounded by political wolves.

Marai hadn’t yet returned. Ruenen’s eyes scanned the room for her as more Greltan lords and ladies arrived. Nieve introduced them all to Ruenen. They bowed and curtsied flawlessly to him in deep, rich colored velvets and furs. Ruenen hadn’t been properly introduced to his own court, yet here he was greeted with pomp and respect.

His knees bounced under the table as he continued waiting for a glimpse of Marai. He downed the contents of his goblet before an attentive servant refilled his wine. Goso, surrounded by his Greltan counterparts, was already red-faced and laughing. The talks must have been going well . . .

Murmurs traveled up and down the tables. The musicians played softer, noticing a new arrival to dinner. Ruenen’s eyes lifted to the hall door in time to see her enter.

He blinked multiple times because he wasn’t truly sure it was her.

Marai was clothed in pale blue silk with long tight sleeves. The bodice dipped low enough to reveal her collarbones and sternum; her skin as white as fresh fallen snow. The gown was tight across her hips, made for a young girl, but it highlighted curves Ruenen never knew Marai had. The blue silk pooled on the floor around her; it was also a little long. Dimtoir was absent, but Ruenen bet Marai’s knife and dagger were strapped discreetly beneath her gown.

Ruenen stopped breathing entirely. His knees stilled.

She was no longer the Lady Butcher.

Was it just him, or had the room gone quiet? Had it grown warmer?

Marai tugged at her gown. Shifted on her feet. She carefully walked down the aisle, as if trying not to trip on the fabric’s hem. She lowered herself into a seat next to Goso’s assistant, who scooted over, giving her a wide berth. Marai was still fae; that fact made obvious by her pristine, ethereal appearance. Her blonde hair billowed down her back like ripples on the water.

Ruenen had never seen anyone more beautiful in his entire life.

“How did you meet your faerie friend?” Nieve asked near his ear, forcing Ruenen to drag his eyes away from Marai.

“I hired her in Gainesbury to protect me from Tacorn. She’s a skilled swordsman. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Nosficio claimed she’s the most powerful faerie in centuries.”

Ruenen nodded. The realization of that fact had his chest swelling with pride. “Her magic is unique by fae standards. I trust her with my life, and the lives of my people.”

Nieve glanced to the wall where Nosficio and Aresti were speaking, heads bowed together in intense conversation. Wariness charged through Ruenen as he saw their faces darken with predatory interest.

“I admire your desire to build a kingdom where humans and magical folk can cohabitate,” Nieve said. “But I do not envy the challenge.”

She lifted her glass. Ruenen did so, as well.

“To new, unexpected friends, and unbreakable bonds,” said Nieve, clinking her goblet against his. She took a long sip as Ruenen’s eyes flitted back to Marai.

She sat straight-backed in her chair, and ate quietly from her plate, ignoring the stares from the Greltan nobles. Several men gazed upon her with interest. Ruenen gave a chuckle. Marai would never let them touch her.

But she’d let him touch her . . .

His fingers fisted the fabric on his thighs to keep himself from sensing the tingles, the aching need to stroke those lovely, sharp collarbones.