Page 86 of Dark Fate

His voice rings out, smooth and melodic, as if he's about to serenade the lot of us. "Forgive my intrusion," he says with an elegant bow straight out of a fairy tale. "I am Aelius. There are whispers among us about your intentions for gracing our court."

Before we can respond, Rhyland's deep voice fills the space. "We come seeking understanding and perhaps aid," he states firmly, leaving no room for doubt about his conviction.

Erik leans forward slightly, deliberate and clear, like a general outlining a battle plan. "We recognize your court's sovereignty and wish to discuss matters that concern not just us but all realms."

"We indeed seek your court's counsel—there are shifts in the fabric of our worlds that require unity," Axilya adds.

Aelius considers this momentarily, his brow furrowing in thought, before turning back to me with keen interest sparking in his gaze. "And you, Lady Danica," he starts inquisitively, his eyes boring into mine as if trying to read my soul, "are you indeed the one foretold in ancient prophecies? The mortal who will stand against encroaching darkness?"

All eyes shift to me, and the room goes still as I straighten my posture, feeling the weight of their gazes. Rhyland's silent encouragement flows through our bond like warm sunlight, bolstering my resolve and giving me the strength to face this moment head-on.

My voice doesn't waver when I reply, "Yes, I am she." My affirmation resonates through the room—a declaration to Aelius and all present, a statement of fact that brooks no argument.

The posh Fae crowd goes quiet like they're chewing on my words, feeling the heavy aftertaste of destiny hanging in the air. It's like they're trying to decide whether to believe me, whether to put their faith in a mortal girl with a big mouth and an even bigger destiny.

The band keeps up their gentle melody, but it's now hushed and suspenseful, waiting for the next scene to unfold. We are all holding our breath, waiting to see what Aelius will say next.

"Marvelous! We earnestly anticipate that you are indeed the personage you profess to be. The evidence you bear is keenly awaited with great interest," Aelius says, and just like that, the buzz of chatter and ripples of laughter crank up again as if he’s just pressed play on the soirée.

I exhale a breath that's been sneakily squatting in my lungs, feeling like I've just passed some test. But before I can fully relax, Alina signals it’s time for dinner. "My Lords and Ladies," she announces formally, "dinner is served."

The crowd starts drifting towards the dining hall, their laughter and conversation flowing like a river as they go.

As we migrate to the dining hall, I’m nearly bug-eyed at the spectacle before us—it’s like stepping into a fantasy epic where grandeur takes on a whole new definition.

The dining chamber is an expansive sea of elegance stretched beneath a ceiling lost in the soft golden glow of a twinkling chandelier constellation. The walls sparkle with inlaid gemstones that glint like stars, their light reflecting off the polished surfaces until the whole room shimmers with an otherworldly radiance.

And the table—good lord, the table—is a wooden beast so long you'd expect one end to be in a different time zone, with room left over for a dragon to nap at the end. It’s draped in golden linens, dotted with crystal goblets, silverware that out-sparkles the stars, and blooms so lush it’s like a rainbow crashed right into the centerpiece.

Thrones masquerading as seats line the sides, their high backs adorned with sunbursts that make each Fae noble seem like an emperor at a war council, albeit armed with silverware instead of swords. It’s a display of power and prestige that's as subtle as a sledgehammer but damn effective.

This isn’t just a meal; it's a feast for the senses, a courtly dance of splendor and anticipation, where each mouthful is a vow of the Fae’s enchanting opulence. It’s enough to make a girl feel like she’s stumbled into a dream.

"My god..." I breathe, my mouth hanging open as I try to take it all in.

Rhyland slides up behind me, and his arms find my waist with the precision of a hawk on the hunt. His touch gives me goosebumps, and I lean back into his solid warmth, feeling grounded by his presence.

He leans in, his breath tickling my ear as he murmurs, "Angel, if I knew a room could steal your breath like this, I would've built you a palace made of stars."

I crack a grin at his line, feeling a flutter in my chest at the raw sincerity in his voice. "Well, if you keep sweet-talking me like that, I might just forget an entire Fae army surrounds us," I toss back, my tone light and teasing.

But Rhyland’s voice rumbles in response, low and rough with barely restrained desire. "Don't fuckin’ play with me, sweetheart. I’m on the edge right now, and the scent of you and the way you look in this outfit," he grips my ass possessively, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, "is pushing me to the brink of insanity."

I suck in a sharp breath, feeling heat pool low in my belly at the raw need in his voice. "Rhyland..." I murmur, my own voice strained.

Before I can say anything else, Alina signals it's time to sit, nudging me out of Rhyland’s gravitational pull—man’s about ready to toss the rules out the window right here and now.

I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure as I nod my thanks to Alina. Rhyland's hand slides from my ass to the small of my back, a gesture both possessive and protective, and together we make our way to our designated spots at the grand table.

I can't help but marvel at the sheer opulence surrounding us.

The only thing missing is the scandalous whispers about who's courting whom. I half expect Lady Whistledown to come swooping in with her latest gossip column, dishing the dirt on which fairy lord was caught canoodling with which pixie duchess behind the rose bushes.

But then I catch Rhyland's eye and see the heat and hunger burning in those ultramarine depths. He's not playing—but I remind myself that this is no game. We're here for a reason: to forge alliances and gather information that could mean the difference between life and death for our realms.

I hustle over to my chair, which Alina’s already shimmied back for me, and sit down with the grace of a newborn giraffe. She’s there, tipping that bottle of golden, shimmery wine into my glass—the stuff's memory magic in a cup, and I’m in desperate need of a little liquid courage. Without hesitation, I wrap my fingers around the stem and gulp it down, the sweet, heady liquid pooling in my belly and sending a flush of warmth through my veins. The way Rhyland’s got me buzzing, self-control’s morphing into a full-time job, and I'm not sure I’m qualified for the position.

Rhyland slides into the space beside me, all coiled power and barely restrained desire, and tosses me one of those smoldering glances that would make anyone’s heart skip a beat. It’s like he’s trying to set me on fire with just a look, and damn if it isn’t working.

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