Page 97 of Fire to the Stars

Gold chains attach it to the ceiling by every few vertebrae. The skull droops, maw wide open as if breathing fire on the party guests. The spindly wings are spread too taut, even for flight. All together, the skeleton’s positioning suggests the decorator couldn’t decide whether it was more impressive to show the dragon in a state of monstrosity or defeat.

Abel’s jaw tightens as he takes it in.

“Keep moving,” I whisper.

My legs shake too muchnotto move them.

“Your invitations?” the doorman prompts.

Almost in a trance, Abel gives them to him. Upon reading them, the doorman’s thick eyebrows lift in surprise. He casts Abel an odd look before he announces, “Monsieur Abel Estellio and Mademoiselle Claire Belgard!”

Heads turn. Dancers halt. The music and chatter quiets. Scrutinizing gazes land on him—no,us.

“Monsieur Estellio!” a jolly voice booms. King Philippe risesfrom his throne on the dais at the head of the ballroom and spreads his purple-sleeved arms. “Welcome!”

Applause echoes so loudly in the vast room that the pressure reaches my lungs. The rapid mood shift inspires me to swipe a flute of champagne from a mustached butler, then immediately take a sip. I’m used to gathering attention when I want it, but here I can’t control when that attention ends.

Gemstones glint on King Philippe’s multiple rings, more jewelry than Queen Danielle beside him wears. Her eyes catch my scar first, but ultimately she offers a welcoming nod. Lucky me. From what I hear, they are adored. Extravagant, but fair.

Reputation can be deceiving.

Abel navigates us forward. “Thank you, Your Majesties. Your invitation is an honor.”

“Your contribution was quite the feat.” Queen Danielle points to the ceiling. “What a prize you felled.”

The drink nearly slips from my hand.

That’sGérard’sskeleton strung above us?

“Tell us.” The king’s eyes glimmer with excitement. “What was it like to slay him? How did it feel?”

Abel doesn’t hesitate. “Regrettable.”

Our audience shifts uncomfortably. I resist the urge to drink, lest I succumb to such a classic nervous tell.

“Intriguing,” King Philippe replies. “I would have expected pride.”

“I take no pride in killing,” Abel declares. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of my research into a cure for Diu’s curse?”

Gasps follow. I sweat. Is this how Abel plays political games? With his weakest cards first? Maybe the sight of Gérard’s skeleton pushed him beyond his logical sensibilities.

“So the rumors are true.” The king sits, fist against his cheek. “You experimented on your brother, correct?”

“Micah was seven years old when he turned,” Abel goes on. “Too young for the kind of greed Diu supposedly punishes.”

“Diu can see things we do not,” Queen Danielle says placatingly.

“Your Majesties, forgive my forwardness, but I kept a dragon in captivity. I saw things even the Slayers Guild refuses to see.”

“Your research bore fruit?”

“Not in terms of a cure, but in terms of Diu’s chosen victims.”

The king sits upright. “Victims?”

Abel isn’t playing court games, nor is he led by emotion. He’s risking his reputation in a public place with the king and queen themselves to plant the seed for change.

He glances at me. I nod my encouragement and sidle closer to him, threading my fingers between his. If he’s said this much, he should embrace it.