A slow smirk curls your lips as you watch Valen’s retreating back. Loosening tongues—now there’s a thought worthy of your father’s cunning. You snap your fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet. Almost instantly, a gaunt servant materializes from the shadows, his head bowed so low his chin nearly touches his chest. “Summon the master of the feast,” you command. “Tell him to prepare the council’s favorite dishes—the spiced venison, the black truffle tarts, the honeyed figs. And ensure the wine is... special.”

The servant’s eyes dart up, just for a moment, before he nods and scurries away. You know what he’s thinking: the last time the wine was “special,” three councilors confessed to embezzling from the royal vaults. Their heads had adorned the castle gates for a week. The memory is almost nostalgic.

You finally break the seal on the Blood Court’s message. The parchment unfolds with a whisper, the ink dark as old blood. The words are sparse, but their meaning coils around your throat like a noose: “The Thorned Queen demands an audience. The moon wanes. Your time runs short.”

The raven, still perched nearby, lets out a guttural chuckle. You crumple the note in your fist, the edges biting into your palm. The Thorned Queen hasn’t left her mountain in centuries. For her to reach out now—either the Court knows something you don’t, or they’re testing you. Both possibilities itch under your skin.

Below, the city’s lanterns flicker like dying stars. Somewhere down there, a human heart still beats, warm and tempting. The hunger stirs, but there’s no time for indulgence. Not yet. You have a feast to orchestrate, a council to manipulate, and now, a queen to reckon with.