The servant draped a dress across the bed, and as Marai approached, she fought back a gasp.

The bodice was rich forest green velvet that plunged to a low v, trimmed with braided gold and aureate jewels. The back was bare, save for gold necklace-like strands that hung from one side to the other. On each shoulder, green gauzy fabric floated down like a cape, but didn’t cover the low open back. The dress had no sleeves, save for a sliver. The green silk skirt hugged a body’s curves, ending in a long train smattered with gold ivy vines.

It was a gown made for presentation, for highlighting the beauty of a woman’s figure. It was the most arresting, most beautiful dress Marai had ever seen.

How could she wear this? It didn’t suit her. The dress would show off too much skin. It was too eye-catching. Too rich. Marai had hoped to blend in with the crowd during the celebrations, another face . . . this gown wouldn’t allow for that.

“Where did this come from?” she asked Harmona, fingers gliding over the fine fabric.

“His Grace had it altered for you days ago. It belonged to the late Queen Larissa.”

Marai’s hand stilled. This was a queen’s gown?

Before she’d even recovered, Ruenen had picked this gown for her specifically for his coronation. If Marai wasn’t already overcome with love for him, she would’ve fallen for him right then and there.

I should at least try it on. It probably won’t fit, anyways . . .

Harmona helped Marai into the delicate, complex dress. If Marai pulled or twisted the wrong way, one of the gold chains could snap. Then Harmona sat her on the stool at the vanity, and wove green and gold ribbon through Marai’s hair in an elegant updo which accentuated the back of the dress. Harmona topped off the hairstyle with a gold jeweled headpiece that matched the chains on the gown, obviously also from Queen Larissa’s personal effects.

Without asking, Harmona quickly dabbed rouge upon Marai’s cheeks. She swiped red paint across her lips and lined Marai’s eyes lightly with kohl. Lastly, Harmona handed Marai two gold-chained pieces that slid onto Marai’s hands like gloves. They latched at the wrists and draped across the top of her hands.

“Why go through all this trouble?” Marai asked, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

Who was this woman? She looked powerful. Feminine. Royal. A part deep inside of Marai delighted in gazing upon this woman. She was so different from the surly face she usually saw in the mirror. For once, Marai saw her human mother, and she didn’t shy away from the reflection. But this woman was a stronger version, not so delicate and docile. This woman was flame and magic. Marai’s body changed—she held her head higher, shoulders back, in a regal stance.

I suppose I am Queen of the Fae . . . for the first time, Marai felt the rightness in knowing her ancestry.

“His Grace and Lord Holfast agreed that you must dress your best. There are noblemen from all across Astye here, and you are an honored guest.” Harmona said all this to the floor, as usual.

“Thank you, Harmona.”

For the first time, Harmona looked up and met Marai’s eyes. There was still fear shining in them, but the maid gave a weak nod in return, a small tight-lipped smile. Perhaps Marai might win her over yet.

“It’s time, my lady.”

Marai was aware of every single pair of eyes that tracked her.

She stood at the doorway to the vast hall of the monastery, a place in the castle she’d yet to explore. It was a sparse room, as most monasteries were. No gilded colors in sight. No jewels. Enormous windows lined the walls. Vaulted ceilings displayed paintings of Lirr and Laimoen. Hundreds of candles covered the front of the hall on wrought-iron pillars and stands. The only decorations were the large, vivid bouquets of native flowers lining the aisle, and the Nevandian sunburst banners and flags hanging from the walls.

Hundreds of people lined the rows within. Thousands more stood outside in the courtyard behind her, and in the Kellesar streets. Through the open archways, Marai spotted children tossing flower petals into the air, coating the cobblestones in pink, purple, and yellow. Women jingled belled bracelets to drive away evil spirits. Music floated on the breeze. People danced in the streets. A city alive with celebration.

Heads followed Marai as she ventured down the green carpeted aisle. Representatives from most of the Nine Kingdoms were there: dark skinned nobles from the Southern countries of Ain and Henig, shorter tanned diplomats from Ehle and Beniel in the West. Marai spotted fashionable men and women from the Empire of Syoto. Princess Eriu, Rhia’s sister and the singular representative of Varana, stood demurely near the front of the hall with the servant who’d rescued her.

Then there was Nieve with her retinue, taking up the majority of the front right side of the hall. The Northern Queen was the most prominent person in the room. If people weren’t staring at Marai, they were gawking at Nieve, who preened at the attention. She shot Marai a slow, arrogant smile, one of the few in the room to actually hold her gaze.

Heads leaned together to whisper, not too quietly, about the faerie who had single-handedly destroyed a third of the Tacornian army. Many regarded her with genuine terror as she passed. Others grimaced and scowled. Others avoided eye contact at all costs. Marai tried to ignore them, and kept her focus centered.

Halfway up the aisle, Thora waved to Marai from the end of a row. She wore a nice, simple blue dress; nothing near as flashy as Marai, but clearly new for the occasion. Her hair had been styled prettily atop her head with sprigs of heather and gorse. Tarik and the other two surviving werewolves, Brass and Yovel, stood next to her in the row. Hazel-eyed Yovel lost his arm in the battle.

“Good to see you, Lady Marai,” Tarik said.

“I’m glad to see you all well.” A heaviness settled within her. Three of Tarik’s compatriots had not survived. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Tarik’s face fell. “The fact that three of us still stand here to see this day, when humans and magical folk can share the same room, is joy enough for us.” He gave her a swift nod, then returned to chatting with the other two weres.

“You look gorgeous,” Thora said, taking Marai’s sweaty hand. “Where did this dress come from?”

“It was Queen Larissa’s,” said Marai. “Ruenen had it fixed up for me.”

Thora quirked a playful eyebrow, making Marai flush.

Keshel entered, looking harried and winded. He walked briskly down the aisle and came to Marai’s side. He was dressed in a conservative dark vest and pants with a deep blue cloak, but his hair was unusually messy and cheeks were wind-blown, as if he’d run a long way to make it in time.

“Where have you been?” Thora hissed at him. “You never came home to the cottages last night.”

“Busy. Witan meetings. Walking in town . . .” Keshel tried to fix his tangled hair.

“You’re hiding something,” said Marai, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nonsense. Where are Raife and Aresti?” he asked.

Keshel was good at keeping secrets, but something wasn’t sitting well with her. It wasn’t a secret lover, Marai guessed, not with the way Keshel’s eyes traveled up and down her dress. What was Keshel keeping from both her and Thora?

“The King’s Guard is walking in behind Prince Ruenen,” said Thora, clearly not as concerned by Keshel’s odd behavior as Marai.

Head Monk Baureo entered in his brown robes, and the massive, echoing chamber quieted. Slowly, he walked down the aisle, chanting the ancient language of the gods. Everyone bowed as he passed.

Then two brown-robed priestesses entered; each wore a headdress adorned with lit candles. They joined hands and walked, chanting, down the aisle after the Head Monk. Once they reached the dais, all three religious leaders raised their chins to the ceiling and reached up to the gods painted there. They swayed, reeds in the wind, and the priestesses’ candle flames flickered.

Avilyard, his armor polished to gleaming perfection, appeared next at the door, followed by two flag bearers. The steady clank of their boots down the aisle thumped in rhythm with Marai’s heart.

Then Ruenen stepped into the room.

Heads bowed, knees bent low; no gaze could fall upon him until he reached the dais where the Head Priestesses now twirled around themselves, chanting.

From her curtsey, Marai watched Ruenen’s feet pass. Tall black boots. The white fur cape dragged heavily behind. His steps hitched a moment when his feet approached Marai, but he passed without a word, heading towards the dais.

The King’s Guard followed, rattling down the aisle. Raife and Aresti were at the rear, behind Elmar and Nyle, as was expected for newer members of the guard. Marai dared a glance up; they both marched with poise and honor. Aresti, in particular, seemed to be in her element.

Who would’ve thought this would be the life she chose?

Aresti and Raife met Marai’s eyes and smiled as they passed. Kadi would have loved this.

The Witenagemot entered last. Holfast, Fenir, and Vorae were at the front, black robes recently pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Shining gold livery collars hung around their necks, and Nevandian emblem pins sparkled against the black robes. This was an important day for them, as well. Holfast had somehow held this country together for nine years. He had every reason to celebrate his accomplishments.

But Fenir looked jumpy, as Ruenen had said earlier. He twisted his hands in the fabric of his robe as he walked. His owlish eyes darted around the room, as if he expected Rayghast to pop up from the Underworld at any moment. Or like he was expecting some kind of attack . . .

Finally, Head Monk Baureo spoke. “You may rise, my children.”