*Weekly updates* "There are no leashes now, no bindings," she says, her voice a dark lullaby in the flickering candlelight, "and it is their sacrifice that gave us this. Nothing can ever repay it. No one can ever take it from us. So now, in this hal...
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Fire flickers low in the heavy torches that sit, perched along the hall. The golden-orange glow splashes on the dark stone walls, casting light on the people lingering around here. There's a band of ragtag musicians (what few that could be scrounged up from the war-torn city) playing some airy tune, but the music is off—jarring with the weight of the black ceiling and the silent, stationary figure sitting at the end of the hall.
(Watching, waiting.)
But Fae supposes that so long as the wine and the beer flow free no one will really notice. Yes, there is cheering and chattering, swaying bodies, every sign of a decent ball. Helen, as always, has done her best.
Fae doesn't like balls. She was barely conscious for the last one she was at, and she still hated it. She hates this one even more. There has never been a time she has been less inclined to celebrate, never a time she wished more to be alone—or alone enough.
Instead, she is perched high at an overlooking table, at her place of honor, by the Paragon's side. As the queen of Keesark, it should be Fae at the center, elevated highest, above all, but she says nothing at the Paragon's higher seat, nothing at its prominence, looming above them all. Things are different, and will stay different in this new tide. Fae is under no illusions as to who holds the power here.
They are—and would always be, something whispering inside her head promises darkly—Allayria's team.
It's this thought that sends her gaze searching again, out around the crowd, and then up, over, across the high table. Lei is at the Paragon's other side, Tara just beyond him, a mirror to Caj who sits on Fae's left, and Hiran, Hiran is at the far end beside Tara. Hiran is laughing, touching Jin's arm, but even so, as his head turns his gaze catches Fae's for one, split second.
They have to speak. Fae's mind is buzzing with it, calculating and calibrating all the ways she can get to him—carefully, quietly—when a hand settles on her shoulder.
She jumps, utensils clattering, as her head swivels around.
"Still have it," Keno says with a sharp-toothed grin, though his hand is bracing at her shoulder, squeezing tight. He has vacated his seat beside Caj and leans over her now. "My life of indolent nobility has not weakened me yet."
"I haven't given you a title," Fae blurts.
"He is practicing," the Paragon suggests, her voice a cold slice through the conversation, reminding the both of them she is still there. Her black eyes now fix on the spymaster. "After all, Keno has learned the power of patience."
The former thief smiles wider.
"But not too much," he adds. "A good servant demands a good reward."
Fae's gaze shoots immediately to the Paragon, fixing on her face, scrutinizing its expression, something dark coiled in the pit of her stomach, but Allayria's expression remains flat.
