Page 61 of Reaper's Ruin
“It’s magnificent,” Soraya whispered beside me, her voice filled with wonder.
I glanced down at her then immediately regretted it. The soft glow of the lightning-glass illuminated her in a way that made my chest tighten. Her midnight blue gown caught the light with every movement, the subtle silver accents shifting like stars againsta twilight sky. Even with the fae glamour, I could still see the humanity in those eyes framed by her delicate mask—so honest, so alive. Impossible to pull my gaze from.
She was staring at everything with undisguised fascination—the dancers swirling across the marble floor, the people in their fancy attire, the musicians playing their instruments, the frozen lightning sculptures even larger than me. Everything I hated about the fae courts she seemed in awe of.
“It’s excessive,” I muttered back, forcing my gaze away from her. “And don’t forget, these fae are dangerous.”
I needed to focus. We were here for information, not to admire fae extravagance. And certainly not for me to admire her.
I swept my eyes across the room, assessing threats, seeking advantages. Exits were limited—two grand doors at the entrance, smaller doors that likely led to antechambers, and balcony doors that opened to a sheer drop down the mountainside. Guards were positioned discreetly at each, their formal attire not quite concealing the weapons they carried. Not that they needed them. No doubt those were Storm Warriors, the storm fae who had survived their trials and now had the ability to control lightning and wind, weaponizing it in an instant. With the heir to the throne nearby, there would no doubt be only the most powerful Storm Warriors around to protect him.
“So many people,” she said, her hand unconsciously moving closer to mine. “How will we ever find him?”
The problem, of course, was the masks. Everyone wore them—elaborate creations of silver, storm-blue, and black, hiding identities almost completely. If Soraya’s killer was here, he could be anyone.
“Carefully,” I replied. “And patiently. For now, we observe. Try to blend in.”
As I said it, I noticed several men staring at her, and it wasn’t because she didn’t blend in. In fact, it was because she blended in perhaps too well. Soraya looked the part of the most elite noble Storm fae, and it seemed every man in Thunderspire was wondering who this new guest was.
Since our entrance, I’d noticed the appreciative glances sent her way. Fae nobles, accustomed to getting whatever—and whoever—they wanted, eyeing her with interest. Each look made something dark and possessive twist inside me, a feeling I had no right to claim.
“Come,” I said, leading her deeper into the crowd.
A server passed with a tray of crystal flutes filled with pale blue liquid. Soraya reached for one before I could stop her.
“What is this?” she asked, sniffing it curiously.
“Storm wine,” I said. “It’s wine that was charged with lightning, giving it a bit of a bite when you sip.”
She took a small sip, her eyes widening. “Oh! It tastes like wine but kind of tickles like Pop Rocks! I haven’t had those since I was a kid! Cool!”
I had no idea what she meant, but I did appreciate the way she lit up when she took another sip, a small giggle coming out as she finished.
I took a glass for myself, more for appearance than desire. But when the wine sparked on my tongue—effervescent with a hint of sweet lightning—I couldn’t deny my enjoyment. It had been centuries since I’d tasted it, and like all the foods and drinks I’d taken for granted when alive, the feeling was almost overwhelming after so long without physical sensation.
For the next hour, we circulated carefully through the crowd, listening to conversations, watching interactions. Soraya, despite the attention her appearance was causing, followed my instructionswell, keeping close to my side and avoiding getting pulled into conversations I knew risked exposing us.
Every time a noble approached her with that curious gleam in their eyes, my tension spiked. She knew nothing of Faelora—not its geography, not its customs, not its complex political hierarchies. One wrong answer about which side of the Silvermist Mountains her supposed homeland lay on, or which seasonal festival the Eastern Reaches were known for, and our cover would shatter like glass.
We had our story prepared for basic questions, but if anyone pressed her too hard on details, they’d quickly realize something was amiss. A fae who didn’t know the name of the current High Seer? Who couldn’t name the three tributaries of the Storm River? Who had never tasted thunder-fruit or witnessed a lightning harvest? Impossible.
So I kept us moving, never lingering long enough to allow us to be approached and dragged into a conversation that could expose her. As we continued moving around blending in but not interacting, occasionally she would whisper observations to me, her lips brushing my ear in a way that made it difficult to concentrate.
“The food is incredible,” she murmured after sampling delicacies from a passing tray.
Each bite seemed to delight her, small sounds of pleasure escaping her that sent unwanted heat through my body.
“Ugh. I still don’t see him. Or at least I don’tthinkI do because maybe I don’t recognize him with his mask. What if the guy who killed me is that one, or that one?” She gestured to two men talking near the fountain.
“Just keep looking. If we don’t see him tonight, we have several days of ceremonies ahead where we can continue the search. If he’s fae royal, he’s going to be here for the coronation.”
We stood near the edge of the ballroom, tucked beside a pillar of storm-carved marble while nobles whirled in glittering circles around us. A small orchestra began a new piece, and couples moved to the center of the ballroom. The dance was one I recognized from centuries ago—a formal Storm Court pattern that mimicked the movement of clouds before a tempest.
“Oh, wow! This is a really neat piece of music. Perfect for dancing.”
I felt her gaze before I saw it.
She tilted her head, and I knew what was coming.
