Page 79 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

“Ah, now, we get to witness a true fae competition.”

I jump at a voice to my side and twitch to find Grand Cleric Beneveto leaning close.

He tips his own wine glass in Woudix’s direction as he quietly explains, “They’ll each take a turn, trying to outdo one another. It’s the best form of entertainment in one thousand years. Watch—Lord Woudix will use his fey.”

“Fey?”

“It’s what they gain from our sacrifices. What separates thefaefrom thegod. It amplifies their powers, lets them achieve the impossible. Look.”

As Woudix raises his hands over the table, bolts of energy spark from his palms like small crackles of lightning, the same bruise-black color as the fey lines that run down his temples.

Goosebumps crop up along my bare arms.

“The ceiling joist was rotten,” Woudix announces to the crowd, holding his arms out over the table. “Weakened by pests.”

A clicking noise fills the air, something strangely familiar, yet I can’t place it. Suddenly, a woman shrieks as hundreds of tiny wood-bore beetles scurry out of the shattered ceiling boards, spreading down the table’s legs onto the floor.

Their faint voices barely reach my ears—hungry hungry hungry hungr—when Woudix brings down his hands.

Bolts of energy pulse over them, and the beetles fall dead instantly, their carapaces clattering onto the floor like an overturned jar of buttons.

My mind reels, the echo of their voices fresh between my ears. So much death.

“That fey—it comes from us? Humans?” I try to keep my voice steady.

Beneveto signals toward a tall, raven-haired woman watching Woudix from the sidelines. “Arden is Woudix’s main acolyte. She’s dedicated her life to him. She fucks him, she worships him, she drains her blood for him to drink. In return, he kills the tumors that would put her in the grave.”

Arden watches Woudix with the same blind devotion as the dead hound at his side. As soon as he lowers his hands, she rushes up to fall to her knees, kissing his boots. Mildly annoyed, he begrudgingly lets her fawn all over him.

Vale nods toward the God of Day. “Samaur. Your turn.”

Samaur motions to the voluptuous twins in the audience. They saunter up, and the first one leans in as though for a kiss, but her lips and Samaur’s don’t meet. Instead, he breathes in her breath until she stumbles backward against a table, dizzy and giggling.

He repeats the act with the second one.

Then, he approaches the banquet table. Shaking his head dramatically, hetsksat the hundreds of dead beetles.

“You left an even worse mess, brother.”

His golden eyes begin to burn as bright as the sun. The crowd murmurs excitedly. Fancifully dressed ladies bounce on their toes, squealing with impatience.

Samaur winks at me. “Watch this, princess.”

The God of Day’s affinity is fire, and when he lifts his hands, a bolt of flame-orange fey crackles over thetable. The flashes of light illuminate the attendees’ rapt faces. Faster than a blink, the fey burns the dead beetle husks—as well as the dust, debris, and spoiled food—while leaving tonight’s banquet offerings untouched.

One of his twin acolytes cheers. The other raises her glass.

“To the God of Day!” the first one says.

“May he always burn hot asfire!” cries the second one.

“I’m not finished!” Samaur announces, then loops his arm around my neck and breathes in my ear, “Watch.”

He shoots another burst of fey, which crackles over the broken glass shards from the fallen chandelier. The crystal pieces glow red, begin to liquify, and then form back into their original shape until they are as finely chiseled as when they first hung from the ceiling.

Samaur squeezes me hard enough to draw a squeak.

Servants hoist the repaired chandelier back into place. Bawdy cheering rings out, silenced only when my father lifts his hand. “Artain. It is your turn.”

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