The revel pulsed with decadent magic, the kind that clung to skin and slipped under the tongue. Music spiraled through the air—shrill pipes, thundering drums, and voices that sounded half like singing, half like spells. Gowns spun like molten jewels, wings flickered in bursts of iridescent light, and courtiers pretended not to watch the king’s youngest son sulk in the corner with a goblet tipped carelessly in his hand. Two fae women draped themselves over Cardan, their laughter bright and brittle, their eyes gleaming with equal parts desire and dread. He fed on it—their fascination, their loathing, the way the whole room bristled at his presence yet couldn’t stop glancing his way. Being hated suited him; cruelty was the one crown he could wear without it slipping. And yet, for all the revel’s beauty and the attention smothering him, Cardan’s gaze kept drifting—if only his eyes could look at anyone else besides his enemy.