The young lord was trying very hard not to whimper.

  Nyvara had her hand on his chest—nothing scandalous, just her palm pressed flat against embroidered silk—but she’d leaned in close enough that her breath ghosted against his ear. Close enough that anyone watching might wonder. Close enough that he was absolutely, magnificently fucked.

  “You were telling me about Vanunahy,” she murmured. “Something about the harbor reforms?”

  His throat worked. “I—yes, Your Highness. The—the Prince Consort has implemented new—”

  She let her fingers drift lower. Just an inch. Just enough.

  “New tariffs?”

  “T-trade inspections,” he managed, voice strangled. “To prevent—to curb—”

  “Smuggling.” Her lips curved. She could feel his heart hammering under her palm. “How very dutiful of him.”

  The boy—and he was a boy, really, couldn’t be more than twenty, the youngest son of some earl from a forgotten province in Vanunahy—was sweating now. She watched a bead of it slide down his temple, watched him try to remember how to breathe like a normal person and fail entirely.

  “Your Highness,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “I should—my father is—”

  “Your father,” Nyvara said thoughtfully, “is on the other side of the hall, deep in conversation with the Minister of Treasury. He won’t notice if you step away for a moment.” She tilted her head, let her gaze drop to his mouth. “Or several moments.”

  The young lord made a sound that might have been agreement or protest or simply his soul departing his body. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing shallow, and—oh, yes, there it was. The slight shift in his stance, the desperate attempt to adjust without drawing attention to exactly why he needed to adjust.

  Nyvara smiled.

  “Though perhaps,” she said, voice dropping to a purr, “you should find somewhere private first. You look rather... uncomfortable.”

  His face went scarlet. “I—excuse me—”

  He fled.

  Not walked. Not made a graceful exit. Fled, like a man two breaths away from embarrassing his entire bloodline and causing a diplomatic incident.

  Nyvara watched him go, then turned back to the celebration with a wine cup in hand and a petty warmth under her ribs. Winterfire in Velarith was always tedious—too much ceremony, too many speeches, too many people pretending the kingdom wasn’t slowly rotting from the head down—but at least she could entertain herself.

  Her gaze drifted across the hall and snagged on someone far more interesting.

  A woman. Older than the boy, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of elegant poise that suggested either excellent breeding or years of practice pretending. Dark hair swept up, red silk that clung in all the right places, and a smile that looked like it knew exactly how sharp it was. She was speaking with Lady Seris Galorn, but her eyes—dark, amused—flicked toward Nyvara just long enough to acknowledge she’d been noticed.

  Then she looked away again.

  Nyvara’s smile sharpened. Well. Now that was promising.

  The Great Hall was ablaze with candlelight and winter greenery, the traditional pine boughs woven with gold ribbon and hung from every column. Musicians played something appropriately festive in the corner. Servants moved through the crowd with trays of spiced wine and honeyed pastries. And at the center of it all, presiding over the festivities from a raised dais, sat King Raemond IV and Queen Elashari.

  Nyvara’s gaze slid to her father.

  He was there—present, upright, crown firmly on his head—but something about him looked wrong. Not obviously wrong. Not dramatically wrong. Just... diminished. Like someone had taken the man she’d spent her whole life resenting and filed down the edges. He smiled when appropriate. Nodded when required. Raised his cup during the ceremonial toast.

  But his eyes were distant.

  Nyvara frowned into her wine. Where the fuck had he been lately? She’d been looking for him half the week—not because she wanted his company, gods no, but because she wanted to know what he was going to do with the miners’ strike in Malthen—and he’d been conspicuously absent. No council meetings. No audiences. Even his private secretary had started giving her evasive non-answers.

  And now here he was at Winterfire, playing king, looking like a man who’d aged five years in two months.

  Elashari, by contrast, looked flawless. The Queen sat beside him in pale gold silk, amber-skinned and serene, every inch the perfect consort. She caught Nyvara’s eye across the hall and offered a small, nervous smile.

  Nyvara raised her cup in return. Poor thing. Twenty-six years old, same age as Nyvara herself, and still so convinced she was living every little girl’s dream of being queen. Still thought the crown mattered more than the cage.

  “Your Highness.”

  Nyvara turned. Lord Regent Thareth stood beside her, all controlled courtesy and barely suppressed smugness. Duke of Caldris, Minister of Justice, and currently the man most pleased with himself in the entire kingdom—if one discounted the mess his daughter had caused.

  “Lord Thareth,” she said, voice dry. “You look like you’ve swallowed a canary.”

  His smile didn’t waver. “Simply enjoying the festivities, Your Highness.”

  “I’m sure.” She took a slow sip of wine, watching him over the rim. “The postponement must have been such a disappointment for you.”

  “The law will be satisfied in due time,” he said smoothly. “Justice delayed is not justice denied.”

  “How very philosophical of you, my lord.” Nyvara took a slow sip of wine. Thareth was already turning away to torment his next victim. “Oh, before I forget—give Lady Selmine my regards, won’t you? I do hope she’s… recovering.”

  Thareth’s brows lifted, mild and almost amused. “Recovering?” he repeated softly. “From what, exactly?” He stepped just close enough that his voice wouldn’t carry. “You should be careful, Your Highness. Rumors are fragile things. They break… and the shards cut whoever’s standing nearest.” His smile returned, impeccable. “But I’ll certainly convey your regards.”

  And then he was gone, already wearing a new face for his next conversation.

  Nyvara’s smile held. She lifted her cup in a tiny salute and drank, slow and unbothered.

  Shards, is it? She thought. Fine. I’ve swallowed worse.

  Someone nearby—a minor lord whose name Nyvara hadn’t bothered learning—was murmuring to his companion. “—heard they’re calling her the Iron Duchess now. After everything in Foher—”

  “Iron or not,” the companion muttered, “she signed that charter. Constitutional violation, clear as day.”

  “But the trial’s not until spring now. Gives her time to—”

  “To what? Flee to Caldris? Beg Duke Malric for sanctuary?” The first man snorted. “She’s guilty. Everyone knows it.”

  Nyvara resisted the urge to scoff. Let the sheep bleat. Their certainty was as fragile as glass. The Duchess’s stubbornness was at least entertaining, a solid piece on the board that refused to topple. It would be a pity if such a satisfying game were ruined by simple-minded gossip. Besides, tonight she had better things to do.

  Like watching that woman in red silk laugh at something Seris said, then glance toward Nyvara again. This time the look held a beat longer.

  Nyvara smiled into her wine.

  “—heard he’s back, apparently.”

  The voice came from somewhere behind her. Two courtiers, drunk enough to forget discretion.

  “And the King knows?”

  “Ask him yourself, if you like spending Winterfire locked in a cold dungeon.”

  “Never!”

  Nervous laughter. The conversation moved on.

  Nyvara filed that away for later consideration. He. Could be anyone. Could be no one. Court gossip was nine parts invention and one part truth, and figuring out which was which required more effort than she was willing to expend tonight.

  She drained her wine, set the cup on a passing servant’s tray, and started making her way across the hall.

  The woman in red silk was alone now. Seris had moved on to torture some other dignitary with polite conversation. The woman stood near one of the tall windows, backlit by moonlight and candleglow, looking like someone who knew exactly how striking the composition was.

  Nyvara stopped beside her, close enough to be noticed but not so close as to crowd.

  “Enjoying the festivities?” she asked.

  The woman turned, lips curving. “More now than a moment ago.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Bold,” Nyvara said. “I like that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Immensely.”

  The woman’s smile sharpened. “Then perhaps we should discuss what else you like, Your Highness.”

  Nyvara laughed. The woman leaned closer, voice turning conspiratorial as she complained about the wine—Velarith’s latest vintage was, apparently, a crime against grapes—when Nyvara felt a distinct tug at her skirts.

  She glanced down.

  Nothing.

  Another tug. More insistent this time.

  Nyvara excused herself with a murmured promise to continue the conversation later, then looked down again.

  A small hand slid out from beneath the long tablecloth of the nearby refreshment table, fingers curling in a very deliberate come here gesture.

  Nyvara’s lips twitched.

  She moved closer to the table, angling herself so her back was to the hall, and crouched just enough to lift the edge of the cloth.

  Two huge grey eyes stared back at her from the shadows. Princess Lyshael—six years old, gap-toothed, still in her nightgown beneath a hastily thrown-on cloak, hair escaping its bedtime braid—was wedged between a table leg and a crate of wine bottles. She looked deeply convinced of her own brilliance.

  “Lily,” Nyvara said, voice low. “What are you doing?”

  “Apricot tarts,” Lily whispered, solemn as a judge. “I need three.”

  “It’s winter. There are no apricots.”

  Lily’s face fell with the kind of devastation only a six-year-old could muster over fruit. “None?”

  “None.” Nyvara glanced up at the table, scanning the trays. “We have poached pears. Honeyed figs. Apple-cinnamon tarts.”

  Lily considered this with the gravity of someone negotiating a treaty. “Apple’s fine,” she said finally, though her tone suggested it was a significant compromise.

  Nyvara straightened, plucked three small tarts from a nearby tray with the ease of someone who’d been ignoring propriety her entire life, and crouched again to pass them under the cloth.

  Lily’s eyes lit up. She grabbed the tarts with both hands, immediately biting into one.

  “You’re supposed to be in bed,” Nyvara said.

  “Governess fell asleep,” Lily said around a mouthful of pastry. “She was reading the boring book. About the king who died.”

  “Most kings die eventually.”

  “This one died and got his head cut off.”

  “Efficient.”

  Lily giggled, then sobered. “Nyvi?”

  “Mm?”

  “Why does everyone look scared when they talk to Father?”

  Nyvara went very still.

  She could hear the celebration continuing behind her—music, laughter, the low hum of two hundred courtiers pretending everything was fine. She could see Lily’s face in the dim light under the table, open and trusting and waiting for an answer that Nyvara didn’t know how to give.

  “People are always scared of kings,” she said finally. “It’s part of the job.”

  “But you’re not scared of him.”

  “No,” Nyvara said. “I’m not.”

  “Good.” Lily took another bite of tart. “I don’t like it when people are scared.”

  Before Nyvara could respond, a sharp voice cut through the hall behind her.

  “Princess Lyshael!”

  A few conversations faltered. Heads turned with the synchronized precision of gossip hounds catching a scent.

  Nyvara straightened. The governess—a stern woman in her fifties with the look of someone who’d just woken from an unplanned nap and found her charge missing—was bearing down on them with the inevitability of a siege engine. Her face was flushed, her hair slightly askew, and she looked about two breaths away from a complete breakdown.

  “Your Highness,” the governess gasped, dropping into a curtsy so hasty it nearly sent her sprawling. “I am so sorry—she must have—I didn’t realize—”

  “She’s under the table,” Nyvara said mildly. “Stealing tarts.”

  The governess blanched. “Under the—oh gods—Your Highness, please accept my most abject—”

  “What’s happened?”

  The voice was soft, but it cut through the governess’s panic. Queen Elashari had appeared beside them, pale gold silk catching the candlelight.

  The chatter in the immediate vicinity died away. Nyvara felt the weight of a dozen gazes shifting toward them—the polite, predatory curiosity of the court sensing a scene. She ignored them.

  Elashari looked between Nyvara and the mortified governess, then down at the tablecloth.

  “Lily?” she asked gently.

  A small, guilty face emerged from beneath the cloth. “Mama.”

  Elashari’s lips twitched—barely, but Nyvara caught it. The Queen crouched down, heedless of her gown and the court’s attention, and held out her hand. “Come out, sweetling.”

  The nearby cluster of courtiers abruptly found their wine cups fascinating. Somewhere behind Nyvara, someone laughed a touch too loudly—cover for watching.

  Lily crawled out, still clutching her remaining two tarts. She looked up at her mother with the kind of hope that suggested she thought charm might still save her. “I was hungry.”

  “You had supper.”

  “That was hours ago.”

  Elashari glanced at Nyvara, something almost apologetic in her eyes. “I’m sorry if she—”

  “She didn’t,” Nyvara said. Then, because watching Elashari twist herself into knots over basic courtesy was exhausting: “She was very polite about the whole operation. Asked nicely for the tarts and everything.”

  “I said please,” Lily confirmed.

  Elashari’s mouth quirked again. She straightened, keeping Lily’s hand in hers, and turned to the governess. “It’s all right, Hilde. Go back to your quarters. I’ll take her.”

  The governess looked like she wanted to protest, but one look at the Queen’s face and she simply curtsied again and fled.

  Elashari looked down at Lily, her expression fond and exasperated in equal measure. “You know you can’t just leave your room whenever you want, don’t you?”

  “But there were tarts.”

  “There are always tarts, Lily.”

  “Not apricot ones.” Lily’s expression turned tragic. “It’s winter.”

  “Yes,” Elashari said patiently. “That’s why there are no apricots.”

  Nyvara watched with something unhelpful lodged under her ribs. Elashari handled it effortlessly—warmth, firmness, that maddening patience that never quite cracked. And worse: it wasn’t even performance. She genuinely adored the small criminal currently attempting pastry-based diplomacy.

  Elashari glanced up at Nyvara again, and this time there was something almost shy in her expression. “She’s very stubborn,” she said. “I think she gets it from you.”

  Nyvara blinked. “From me?”

  “You’re her favorite,” Elashari said simply. “She talks about you constantly. Wants to be just like you when she grows up.”

  “Gods help her,” Nyvara muttered.

  But Lily was nodding enthusiastically. “Nyvi doesn’t let anyone tell her what to do.”

  “That’s true,” Nyvara said. “But I also don’t hide under tables at royal celebrations.”

  “You could though.”

  “I could. But I don’t.”

  Elashari’s smile was small but genuine. She squeezed Lily’s hand. “Come on, sweetling. Let’s get you back to bed before your father notices.”

  Lily sighed dramatically but allowed herself to be led away. She looked back over her shoulder at Nyvara, waving with the hand that wasn’t holding tarts.

  Nyvara watched them go—the Queen in her gold silk, the princess in her nightgown and cloak, both of them utterly at ease with each other—then she turned back to the celebration, let her expression slide back into its usual cynical amusement, and went to find that woman in red silk.

  She was near the dais, and for a few minutes, her complaints about the vintage were almost entertaining. Then she excused herself with a promise to return—something about powder and pins, delivered with a look that suggested neither was the real reason. Alone again, Nyvara turned back to survey the celebration with fresh wine and idle curiosity.

  The hall had settled into its rhythm. Conversations rose and fell like tides. Somewhere near the musicians, an elderly lord was holding court about crop rotations with the desperate enthusiasm of someone who’d been drinking since midday. Lord Meris Talvern, Malthen’s representative, stood with his wife, looking vaguely uncomfortable in formal velvet. Lady Seris had cornered some foreign envoy—Terynthian, judging by the accent—and was interrogating him about trade routes.

  And there—near the far column, just visible through the crowd—a man.

  Nyvara’s attention snagged.

  Late thirties, maybe. Broad shoulders, military bearing barely softened by court clothes. Dark hair with a single streak of grey, strong jaw, the kind of looks that suggested he’d been handsome since birth and knew it. He was speaking with Duke Thareth, his posture relaxed but his hands moving with calculated precision—gestures timed to emphasize points, to draw the eye, to charm.

  Thareth nodded, smiled that controlled smile of his, clapped the stranger on the shoulder. Then the man moved on—smooth as silk—to his next target. Master Aeldric Sorenn, the Society’s Crown Council representative. A brief exchange. The stranger mentioned something and the old mage’s expression warmed.

  Nyvara took a slow sip of wine, tracking him across the hall. He didn’t linger too long with anyone. Didn’t press. Just touched base, left an impression, moved on. Professional. Practiced. The movements of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and thought he was being subtle about it.

  “—she was too careless—”

  The voice came from somewhere to Nyvara’s left. Two minor lords, deep in wine and gossip.

  “Foher’s always been trouble. Too much power, too little sense. Remember Duke Alric?”

  Meanwhile, the stranger had moved again. Now he was speaking with—was that the Vanunahyan ambassador? Yes. The same man whose son had fled the hall earlier with a very visible problem. The ambassador didn’t seem to notice his son’s absence. Too busy listening to whatever charm the stranger was spinning.

  “—she’s celebrating the festivities right now, like nothing happened.”

  “Well, my sister would have attended, if her mother-in-law hadn’t died last month.”

  “Oh, I don’t quite recall your sister being that fond of lady Dale.”

  “Who was?”

  Nyvara’s fingers tightened on her cup. One more word about Foher and she’d ask Master Sorenn to open a portal right to the Duchess’s bedchamber, so all these tedious bastards could finally get a good look at her and her pets—all three of them.

  The stranger was moving again. This time toward—

  Oh.

  He was coming toward her.

  Nyvara’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted. This would be entertaining, she was certain of it.

  He stopped at a polite distance, offered a bow that was neither too deep nor too shallow. “Your Highness.”

  “My lord.” She let her gaze drift over him—slow, assessing, just pointed enough to make most men nervous. He didn’t flinch. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “Alven Daskar, Your Highness. Burgrave of Durnhal.”

  Ah. That one.

  Nyvara’s smile sharpened just slightly. “Lord Daskar. How lovely. I’ve heard so much about Durnhal lately.”

  Something flickered in his eyes—wariness, maybe, or calculation. “Nothing too damning, I hope.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say damning.” She tilted her head. “Eventful, certainly. Raiders. Fires. That sort of thing.” A pause, perfectly timed. “And I believe there was some drama at a feast? Though the details were deliciously vague.”

  His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Court gossip has a way of embellishing.”

  “Does it?” Nyvara’s voice was light, innocent. “What a shame. I do so enjoy accurate reporting.”

  He studied her for a moment, then seemed to decide on charm. His smile returned, warmer now, with just a hint of self-deprecation. “In that case, Your Highness, perhaps I should provide the accurate version myself. Over wine, if you’re amenable.”

  Bold. She’d give him that.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “Though I find I’m more interested in what brings a burgrave all the way to Velarith for Winterfire. Durnhal’s quite far east, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” He shifted closer. “But some celebrations are worth the journey. And some company even more so.”

  Nyvara laughed. Low, genuine. “Smooth, Lord Daskar.”

  “I try.”

  “Do you?” She let her gaze linger on his face, just long enough to be noticed. “And here I thought you were simply being sincere.”

  His smile turned pleased. Confident. He thought he was winning.

  “I can be both,” he said.

  “Mm.” Nyvara took another sip of wine, watching him over the rim. “Tell me—how does one govern a fortress city while attending celebrations halfway across the kingdom? Don’t burgraves usually stay close to their walls?”

  “Competent deputies,” he said easily. “And a well-trained garrison. Durnhal runs smoothly whether I’m there or not.”

  “How fortunate.” She paused. “Though I suppose that makes one wonder why you’re needed at all.”

  The barb landed. She saw it in the brief tightening of his expression, quickly smoothed away.

  “A leader’s value,” he said carefully, “isn’t measured solely by presence. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to delegate. When to step back and let others handle the day-to-day while you attend to... larger concerns.”

  “Larger concerns.” Nyvara’s lips curved. “Like Winterfire celebrations?”

  “Like ensuring Durnhal—and Foher—have proper representation at court.”

  There it was. The real answer beneath the charm.

  Nyvara let the silence stretch, watching him. He held her gaze, confident now, probably thinking he’d impressed her.

  “Well,” she said finally, voice warm with amusement. “I do appreciate a man who knows what he wants.”

  His smile widened. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Highness.”

  “I should return to my other guests,” she said after a moment, though her tone suggested she’d rather not. “But perhaps we’ll speak again later, Lord Daskar. I find myself... curious about Durnhal’s governance.”

  “I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

  He bowed again—deeper this time, more familiar—and moved off to resume his circuit of the room. Thareth again. Then Lord Covenay, the Chancellor. Then a cluster of minor nobility who looked thrilled to be noticed.

  He thought he was hunting. Poor bastard.

  Nyvara turned back to find the woman in red silk returned, powder and pins apparently reapplied, looking at her with knowing amusement.

  “Making friends, Your Highness?”

  “Something like that,” Nyvara said, and smiled. “Also, I might have a favor to ask Master Sorenn later.”