Page 57 of Forged Flight

I glance up at Lucan.

Goddess, he’s gorgeous.

Even surrounded by nobles dressed in elaborate gowns and fancy suits, he commands attention. At seven feet three inches tall, with broad shoulders and sturdy build, he’s impossible to overlook.

We pass beneath the grand stone archway and enter the palace alongside the rest of the arriving guests.

The ballroom is magnificent.

Golden chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their candles casting warm light across the polished marble floors. Ornate tapestries decorate the walls, embroidered with the royal crest in crimson and gold. Tables overflowing with food and wine line the edges of the room, while musicians perform from a raised platform at the far end.

Everything gleams and sparkles. The entire ballroom is the epitome of wealth, dazzling and extravagant.

But then I notice the guards.

They stand along the perimeter of the ballroom, spaced evenly between the towering pillars. Every one of them is heavily armed, swords strapped to their sides and polished armor covering their chests.

My smile fades.

The contrast is jarring.

This ball is nothing more than an excuse for the king to flaunt his riches beneath the guise of celebration. But the armed soldiers surrounding the room send a very different message.

Enjoy the feast. Marvel at my palace. But don’t forget exactly who holds the power.

Lucan gives my arm a soft squeeze. “You look like you could use a drink, Doc.”

I manage a small smile. “That sounds perfect.”

He releases my arm and reaches toward a servant passing by with a silver platter covered in goblets. He plucks two glasses from the tray and hands one to me.

“To a magical night,” he says, raising his wine.

I clink my glass against his. “To a magical night.”

I take a small sip, letting the sweet, spiced wine warm my throat.

As we make our way toward the growing crowd, a trumpet suddenly blares from somewhere across the ballroom.

The music abruptly stops, and every conversation falls silent.

I turn toward the grand marble staircase at the far end of the room. A guard stands at the top, trumpet still raised to his lips.

“His Majesty, King Castor!”

The king pauses at the top of the staircase, his gaze sweeping across the ballroom. Then, slowly, he begins to descend with measured steps. He takes his time, allowing every eye in the room to follow him.

When he reaches the bottom, he claps his hands together.

“Good evening, citizens of Thistle Grove!”

A chorus of polite greetings rises from the crowd.

“Tonight is the Pumpkin Moons Festival Royal Ball!” he announces, spreading his arms as though he’s welcoming us into his home. “I hope you enjoy the feast, the beautiful palace, and this wonderful celebration.”

I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

The king turns toward his wife, who has been waiting patiently at the foot of the stairs. She’s beautiful. Far too beautiful—and far too young, in my opinion—to be married to a man as cruel as him.