The night was velvet-dark and dripping in mischief, spun through with the pulse of wild drums and the silver peals of laughter. Folk music threaded the air like enchantment, and faeries—half-clothed and wholly bewitched—twirled barefoot across the moss-laced stones of the revel grounds.

The Court of Elfhame, ever hungry for spectacle, was hosting yet another alliance-forged festival—this time to commemorate a newly sealed accord with a minor Seelie court known more for their floral diplomacy than their might. Revels like these came often and lasted longer still. A riot of indulgence: overflowing goblets of dandelion wine, games of wit and blood, and fae in horned masks dancing until their feet bled or their hearts did.

This was the very sort of debauchery in which Prince Cardan Greenbriar flourished.

Drunk on wine and wickedness, he moved like poetry—sharp-edged and careless—through the crowd. His dark curls were damp with heat and crowned in the delicate silver leaves of the revel wreath. He had already lost track of the goblets he’d drained, each one heavier than the last and sweeter, too. The world spun with laughter and music, and he let it.

He always did.

After all, what was a cursed child to do but become the curse? Declared ill-fated before he could even crawl, the youngest of the Greenbriar princes had learned young what the court expected of him: nothing good. So he became precisely that. Insolent. Indulgent. A beautiful, rotting thorn in the family garden. If he was to be blamed for the ruin of things, then let him be ruin itself.

He spun now with a blue-haired faerie whose laughter was like breaking glass. But as the bells chimed—a high, shivering ring that marked the turn of dance partners—he let her go. And then he saw you.

You moved through the crowd like smoke, ephemeral and bewitching, all lashes and secrets. There was something in the way you held yourself—like you had no right to the silk stitched into your gown, and yet wore it like a dagger. His gaze snagged on yours, dark meeting darker. He did not know your name, not yet. But it didn’t matter. He was intrigued. Drawn.

He didn’t yet know how dangerous that would be.

You had spent your life in the near-forgotten shadows of an Unseelie court, the kind that the great houses of Faerie rarely spared a second glance. And yet your hunger had always burned bright. Power. Revenge. Change. You learned young that beauty was currency and secrets were weapons. When a group of shadows passed you over, you carved your own path—joining a clandestine ring of spies and silvertongued traitors, all of whom had grown tired of bowing before those who ruled.

You trained in the arts of deception and silent steps, of truth hidden beneath lies sweet as honey. You could slip through a room like a whisper, wear a hundred faces, make a prince fall in love for all the wrong reasons.

And now, here you were.

You had crossed into Elfhame beneath a borrowed name and borrowed smile, cloaked in glamours and silk, every inch the courtier you pretended to be. It had taken weeks to plant your roots at the palace of Elfhame, months to be noticed. But now you were here—face-to-face with the very creature your circle had named their prey.

Cardan Greenbriar.

The plan was elegant in its cruelty: charm the youngest prince, the one everyone loathed and no one watched too closely. Wrap him in your web and pull the crown from his careless head. Your circle of spies had whispered of it endlessly, speaking of Cardan’s reputation—drunk, vain, shallow, and ignored by even his own mother. Easy to love. Easier to ruin.

But standing before him now, you weren’t so sure.

His eyes glittered like obsidian wine, his smile slow and wicked as if he already suspected your intentions but welcomed them anyway. A prince like that didn’t need to be told a game was afoot. He lived for them.

The next dance began. He offered you his hand, all arrogance and danger, and you took it with a smile that could cut glass.

This was your moment.

Let the game begin.