The two Drakovich heirs smiled bright as they greeted each guest in passing, dodging and weaving through the crowd like they owned it. Every delegate mattered tonight, not just for appearances, but for the whispers tucked between toasts.

  Amidst the drinking games and dance-floor swagger, the delegates—sloshed and smiling—seized the rare chance to mingle freely. Politics in drunken stupor was a welcome reprieve from the Grand Assembly's endless rigidity. Rations and commerce, electricity and immigration. Nothing seemed off the table tonight, even as lightning split the sky overhead.

  Oliver kept mental tabs on the debates as they leapt from table to table. Familiar battlegrounds of policy and pride, now dressed up in velvet and wine. What usually dragged on for days in the Assembly now blurred into background music.

  Even Evie, half-listening while dodging drunk nobles, could tell the wine was working. Tongues wagged. Secrets slipped. If her uncle Sullivan was right, and he usually was, they’d have enough ammo to use against the Grand Assembly.

  Every vote mattered, after all.

  Even the Jiangshi were working overtime tonight, Evie was sure of it—feeding on the treasure trove of loose words spilling into the air. Breathed as freely as the rain poured outside.

  She locked eyes with one in particular as it emerged from its cloaking mist to serve wyrmheart quenelles to a cluster of dwarves. They pounded the table in delight. One of them even dared to clap the blue-uniformed vampire on the back in thanks.

  A rare thing, to see a Jiangshi flinch.

  Evie watched as he vanished back into the mist, his vivid blue eyes flickering with the fury of the storm outside. That was why they were on service and surveillance—never meant to converse. Just to listen. To slip between shadows, vanish before notice, and gather everything not meant to be heard.

  Jiangshi were good at that.

  You know, when they weren’t committing espionage or the occasional assassination in Chien’s name.

  Not that Evie would know. Her only conversation with one had ended in her telling him to piss off. She wasn’t about to let any pureblood call her a flukeworm in her own house. Purebloods were always the worst.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Except her uncles.

  But only because she loved them.

  Oliver, ever the opportunist, had his own shadebound trip the youngest elven delegate. She was sent to schmooze on behalf of the twin heads of the Elven Concord. Said twins were too busy with conversation to entertain their little sister.

  She stumbled back with a gasp, but Oliver caught her in his arms, all charm and apologies.

  “Oh! Hey, are you alright?” came the smooth delivery of a rake who’d charmed more leaves than autumn.

  The delegate blinked up at him, breathless. Her blush bloomed like a mana-scorched rose—fast and fatal. Across the room, the twin heads of the Elven Concord looked on, deliberate with their stares. The younger brother sneered his contempt whilst his older sister cheerily smiled at the budding romance.

  Even if she would never approve of their union.

  Oliver offered a dazzling smile. “Can’t have one of the Concord’s finest bruised on our account.” His shadebound slinked away, smug and unseen.

  Evie didn’t bother to hide her groan. “Ugh, I hate how easy he has it,” she muttered, stealing a drink from a passing tray. But he’d gotten the target cleanly under his spell.

  If Oliver didn’t screw it up, they might finally have one elf on Sullivan’s side during the Grand Assembly.

  Evie was halfway to the next table when she caught a familiar voice—sharp and grating like gravel in a wineglass.

  “Look at her. She’s a little girl.”

  Evie ducked behind a broad-shouldered werewolf, her fingers tightening around her stolen wine glass. Sheriff Favara Lopez of the Glass Chapel was leaning in close to another human delegate—someone from the outer district, if the salt stains on his coat were anything to go by.

  “Too soft for court politics,” Favara continued. “Trust me. She’s there for decoration. Probably isn’t even real royalty.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past those leeches to place a stand-in. I mean, no one’s ever heard of this “Princess” before.”

  Favara gave a tipsy chuckle. “Exactly. What if she’s some fairy spy? Hm?”

  “Ha! The elves would walk out if they knew they let another undocumented species inside the walls.”

  Their laughter cracked like thunder, far too pleased with themselves.

  “Besides,” continued the delegate from the outer district. “What’s a foreign Princess doing marrying some fop from our city? Marrying the King would be better, right?”

  The sheriff didn’t answer. But the smile in her silence said enough.

  Evie downed the rest of her wine and moved on—fast, silent. A little more furious than before.

  She hated that woman.

  And if it were up to Evie—which it never was—Sheriff Favara Lopez would be thrown out with the storm.

  She continued her walk from table to table, trying to gather what slips of information she could for her uncle Sully—who was far too busy brooding at the head of the table to do it himself. Not brooding, exactly. Overwatching. Calculating. Making sure every cog of his great machine clicked into place. The reception. The guests. The wine. The whispers. Everything.

  He didn’t need to join the conversation to steer it. Didn’t even need to speak to be heard.

  He was scary like that.