The Gathering

I count seventeen ways to kill Lord Varen before he finishes his wine.

The blade at my hip. The decorative sword on the wall behind him. The crystal goblet itself, shattered and driven into his throat. His own belt, if I feel creative.

I won't do any of them. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm a shadow at the edge of the room, cataloging threats while the Autumn Court celebrates absolutely nothing.

That's what the fae do. They celebrate. They scheme. They live forever and fill the endless days with parties that blur into each other until centuries feel like a single, glittering moment.

I'm twenty-three. I'll be dead before most of them bother to learn my name.

"The human is staring again," someone murmurs. Not quietly enough.

I shift my weight, let my gaze slide past Lord Varen to the cluster of nobles near the fountain. Lady Silis with her razor smile. The Thornwood twins, always whispering. A visiting dignitary from the Winter Court whose name I never bothered to learn.

Threats assessed. Minimal. The real danger tonight is boredom.

From my position near the pillar, I have a clear line of sight to the throne. King Orion sits there like he was carved from the same amber stone, one hand draped over the armrest, the other holding a goblet he hasn't touched.

Three hundred years on that throne. I've served five of them. He's never once looked at me.

That's fine. I don't need him to look. I need him to keep signing the orders that give my life purpose, keep sending me on the missions no one else will take, keep pretending I'm valuable enough to feed and house and sharpen like the weapon I am.

The music shifts. Something older, slower. The fae begin pairing off for a dance that probably predates human civilization.

I stay at my pillar.

"You could dance," says a voice behind me.

I don't turn. I know who it is by the cold that follows her, the Winter Court dignitary's attendant. Young, for a fae. Maybe a century. Still stupid enough to talk to the help.

"I could also cut off my own feet," I say. "Same result. Less humiliation."

She laughs like I've said something charming instead of true.

"You're the king's enforcer, aren't you? The mortal one?"

"I'm the king's property. There's a difference."

The cold recedes. Good. I don't have the patience for small talk. Not when Lady Silis is moving toward the west entrance with purpose, not when the Thornwood twins have stopped whispering and started watching.

I catch the eye of another guard, fae, competent, loyal. Jerk my chin toward the twins. He nods and shifts position.

This is what I'm for. This is what I do. I notice the things that matter while everyone else is distracted by music and wine and the eternal fae game of who's sleeping with whom.

The king raises his goblet. The room falls silent.

"To the Autumn Court," he says. His voice carries without effort, rich and deep and absolutely empty of anything real. "To another century of prosperity."

The court cheers. I stay silent.

He drinks. Everyone drinks. I watch the reflections in the crystal chandeliers, tracking movement, tracking threats, tracking...

Something hits me.

Not physical. Nothing I can see or touch. But suddenly my chest is cracking open and there's warmth flooding in, gold and amber and burning, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except feel.

Feel him.

My blade clatters to the marble floor.

The sound cuts through the music. Heads turn. I'm on my knees and I don't remember falling, don't remember anything except this impossible warmth flooding through me, filling every hollow space I've spent twenty years pretending doesn't exist.

Across the room, King Orion is standing.

He's staring at me.

At me.

His hand is pressed to his chest like something's clawing out of it, and his face is open, cracked wide with shock, and he's saying something but I can't hear it over the roar in my blood.

The bond.

I know what this is. Every fae child learns about bonds, the rare, perfect matches that fate sometimes grants. The unbreakable connection between two souls that were made for each other.

I spent twenty years as property. I spent five years being invisible. And now fate decides I'm his?

No.

The word is a blade in my throat.

No. No. No.

I scramble to my feet. The warmth is still there, still trying to convince me this is right, this is home, this is everything I've ever wanted without knowing I wanted it.

But I know what I want. I want to survive. I want to matter. I want to be seen as a person and not a tool.

And I want absolutely nothing from the king who looked through me for five years like I was made of glass.

His attention crashes into mine. His mouth forms a word.

"Wait..."

I run.

The bond screams in protest. Every step away from him feels like dragging myself through broken glass. My chest burns. My vision blurs.

But I'm a weapon. I was made for pain.

I make it to the corridor. The gardens. The outer wall.

The bond yanks me back like a hook in my ribcage. I double over, gasping, and that's when I feel it, his shock. His confusion. His desperate, reaching want.

He can feel what I feel.

He can feel my hatred.

Good.

I straighten up. Force myself to breathe. The bond is tugging at me, insisting I turn back, insisting I return to the king who finally, finally looked at me...

Too late, I think. Twenty years too late.

The pull intensifies. Pain spikes through my chest, sharp enough to make my vision white out.

I grit my teeth and take another step away.

Then another.

The king's presence burns at the edge of my awareness like a sun I can't escape. He's coming after me. I can feel his intention, his determination, his terrible, unwelcome hope.

I make it three more steps before the pain drops me to my knees.

Guards are approaching. I hear their footsteps, their careful fae tread, and then a voice cutting through the agony in my skull.

"The king requests your presence."

I look up. The guard's face is careful, blank. He doesn't know what to do with me anymore. None of them do.

I was an enforcer. A weapon. Property.

Now I'm the king's fated mate.

And I'd rather die than let him think that means I'm his.

"Fine," I manage. My voice sounds like I've been gargling with glass. "Take me to him."

The guard hesitates. "You'll come willingly?"

I pull myself to my feet. The bond settles slightly, pleased that I'm no longer running. I want to rip it out of my chest.

"I'll come," I say. "But not willingly."

The difference matters. At least to me.

They escort me back through the gardens, through the corridors, through a door I've never been allowed to enter. The king's private chambers.

He's standing by the window when I arrive. Still in his formal robes. Still wearing the crown of twisted branches that marks him as ruler of the Autumn Court.

He turns.

And for the first time in five years, King Orion of the Autumn Court looks at me like I'm real.

"You felt it." Not a question.

"Yes."

"You know what it means."

"I know what you think it means."

He takes a step toward me. The bond flares, warm and wanting, and I hate it. I hate that my body is leaning toward him without my permission. I hate that some part of me has already decided he's mine.

"We are fated," he says. "Bonded. The magic has chosen us for each other."

"The magic," I say, "can go to hell."

A muscle jumps in his cheek. "You would deny fate itself?"

"I would deny you."

His face does something complicated, surprise, then hurt, then a careful blankness that I recognize. I've worn that mask myself.

"You're upset," he says finally. "This is... unexpected for both of us. Perhaps in the morning..."

"In the morning I'll still hate you."

"You don't know me."

I laugh. It sounds wrong. Broken.

"I've known you for five years. I've killed for you. Bled for you. Nearly died for you. Three times. And you never once asked my name."

He goes still.

"What is your name?"

"Now you want to know?" I shake my head. "No. You don't get to pretend this changes anything. You don't get to act like the bond makes us equals when yesterday you couldn't have picked me out of a crowd."

"I would have noticed..."

"You didn't."

Neither of us speaks. The bond pulses, trying to bridge the gap, trying to convince us both that this anger is temporary, that underneath it there's something worth saving.

Maybe there is. Maybe I'm the one who can't accept what I've always wanted because it came from the wrong source.

But I've been property my whole life. I will not be owned by fate too.

"I need time," I say finally. "And space. Away from you."

"The bond..."

"The bond can punish me all it wants. I've survived worse than magical heartache."

His expression flickers. I feel his doubt through the connection, his worry, his strange new awareness of me, relentless and all-consuming.

"One week," he says. "I'll give you one week. But the bond cannot be ignored forever."

"Watch me."

I turn and walk out of his chambers.

Behind me, I feel him reach for the connection between us. Feel him press against it, testing.

I slam every wall I have against him.

The bond doesn't care about my walls. It carries his final thought to me anyway, clear as a spoken word:

What did I do wrong?

I don't answer.

I'm too busy asking the same question.