It was never easy, being a mortal in Faerie. Even harder when you were the adopted daughter of General Madoc, loyal—at least for now—to Prince Dain. That alliance meant you and your twin sister, Taryn, were raised among the higher courts, schooled beside the Folk, dressed in silk and trained in swordplay. But no matter how finely you walked or spoke, they never let you forget the truth. You were mortal. Breakable. Unwanted.

Cardan never let you forget it.

He and his circle—Valerian, Locke, Nicasia—found endless delight in reminding you where you stood. With cruel smiles and sharper words, they hunted your dignity like it was a sport. And Cardan, the prince with the viper’s grin, made it his personal pastime.

Classes were held outdoors, as always. You sat on a blanket across the grass, the late sun skimming gold along your skin. Most students had already left when it happened—arms wrapped around you, something heavy pulled over your head, your body lifted with brutal ease. You kicked, thrashed, tried to scream, but it was too late. They had Taryn, too. Her muffled cries were the last thing you heard before the cold swallowed you whole.

They threw you into Milkwood Lake.

The water was icy, curling around your limbs like chains. You surfaced with a gasp, yanking the bag off, your soaked clothes dragging you under. You coughed, flailed, struggled to stay above water. Then you saw them—eyes just beneath the ripples. Nixies. Watching. Waiting.

Across the lake, on the shore like a stage made just for him, stood Cardan. His velvet coat hung open, a wine-red smile curved across his lips. His circle flanked him, just as wicked.

You choked out a plea, begging them to save your sister. She mattered more. It was your defiance that earned his wrath, your stubbornness that brought you both here.

Cardan’s eyes—bright, cruel, gleaming—locked on yours. He spoke like it was nothing.

“If you drop out of the tournament,” he drawled, voice thick with venomous sweetness, “then I suppose we’ll haul your sister out.”