Chapter 6 6- Never Allow A Fae To Define When A Promise Is Complete.

LOTTIE

The house looming in front of me is less of a house and more of a mansion. It stretches wide and tall, all sweeping balconies and glowing windows, every inch of it lit warmly against the night sky like it’s inviting the world inside. I check the time on my phone. 8:29 pm. I’m just on time. Somehow. 

Guests are streaming up the long stone pathway and gliding up the steps with effortless grace, flashing little cards identical to the one Pik gave me. They’re laughing softly, dressed in gowns that shimmer like starlight and tailored suits that look stitched from shadows and silk. Jewellery glints at throats and wrists. Heels click against stone. Fabric whispers. 

It takes about three seconds for me to realise that my earlier thought was absolutely correct. My black leggings. Grey tank top. Dark blue hoodie. Ratty old sneakers. I look like I got lost on the way to a late-night grocery run. I didn’t think about dressing up. Maybe I should have, because it IS a party. But I don’t exactly own ‘fae gala’ attire. Even if I did, I didn’t have time to debate fashion choices while my brother is missing. Still, I feel painfully underdressed.

I take a slow breath and remind myself why I’m here. There are a lot of people here, and not a single one of them looks human. Some are tall and ethereal with luminous skin. Others are sharp-featured and predatory. A few have ears too pointed, eyes too bright, smiles too knowing. In theory, asking a fae for help is simple. In practice? It feels like walking willingly into the lion’s den. I swallow hard. I’m doing this for Zander. 

I creep up the front steps, keeping my eyes mostly down until I reach the top. When I finally look up, I find a goblin waiting beside the grand wooden doors. He’s small, about my height, maybe slightly shorter, with reddish skin and exceptionally long, pointed ears that peek out from beneath neatly combed dark hair. He’s wearing a tuxedo that looks like it costs more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. The fabric is immaculate. The shoes gleam. He looks like he belongs here. I very much do not.

I pull the invitation from my hoodie pocket and hold it out with hands that are steadier than I expected. As I extend it, I notice my fingers are still faintly streaked with dried dirt from the charm earlier. I hadn’t even thought to scrub it off. The goblin plucks the card from my hand with long, bony fingers. His black eyes flick down to it. His brow furrows.

“The invitation is real.” He mutters. Relief sparks in my chest. “But she’s a human. There weren’t any humans on the guest list.” He mumbles to himself. The relief dies immediately. He studies me again, gaze sweeping over my clothes, my iron jewellery, my dirt-streaked fingers. He looks conflicted, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m an amusing anomaly or a problem.

“I’m a witch.” I offer quickly, not sure if that helps or makes things worse. His sparse eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline.

“And you came here alone? Interesting…” He asks slowly. That does not sound reassuring. “I will let you through, but you will owe me a favour.”  He decides, tilting his head slightly. Ah. There it is. I narrow my eyes and lift my chin, pushing the short curls of hair back so it’s not half-hiding my face. If I’m going to do this, I can at least pretend I know what I’m doing.

“No.” The word comes out firmer than I feel. The goblin’s expression shifts with interest. “I have an invitation. That allows me entry. Now… Open the door?” I continue, forcing my voice not to shake. I mean it to sound like a command. Unfortunately, the slight lift at the end turns it into a question. The goblin’s grin spreads slowly, revealing sharp little teeth.

“Ah, so the witch knows how the game is played. But can she keep up? Only time will tell.”  He says, amused. With a dramatic flourish, the goblin swings the massive wooden doors inward.

Warm light spills over me, bright and golden, carrying with it the layered hum of conversation, the clink of crystal glasses, and music that seems to thrum directly under my skin. The air itself feels different inside, thicker somehow, charged. Every instinct I have tells me to turn around. Instead, I lift my chin. 

The goblin watches me for half a second longer, as though waiting to see if I’ll falter. I don’t give him the satisfaction. I step across the threshold. The doors close behind me with a heavy,  echoing thud. And just like that, I’m inside.

Oh. My. Gosh. The inside of this place looks like every over-the-top, glitter-drenched movie depiction of a faerie party I’ve ever seen, except real. And somehow worse. Or better. I can’t decide. The ballroom is enormous, ceilings arching high above in sweeping curves painted with constellations that actually shimmer like distant stars. Chandeliers drip from above, not with crystals but with what looks like captured moonlight. The entire room glows softly, bathing everything in gold and silver tones that make even the shadows look deliberate and beautiful. Large tables line the walls, overflowing with delicacies that look almost too perfect to eat. Towering cakes dusted in edible shimmer. Bowls of jewel-toned fruit that seem to emit their own faint glow. Platters of tiny pastries shaped like flowers and crescent moons. Crystal decanters filled with liquids in impossible colours, deep violets, molten ambers, soft luminescent blues. And I cannot touch any of it.

Everyone is dressed impeccably. Gowns that flow like liquid silk. Tailored suits that fit like they were stitched onto their bodies. Some of the outfits look modern and sleek; others seem ripped straight from another century entirely, corsets and lace, velvet jackets, elaborate embroidery. It’s like the entire history of fashion decided to attend the same event and agreed to be breathtaking about it. I feel like I showed up to a royal wedding in gym clothes. For a moment, the scene is almost hypnotic. The soft swirl of fabric, the low murmur of voices, the clink of glass against glass. It feels unreal, like I’ve stepped into a story instead of a room. 

Then I recognise the music. I blink. Because instead of violins and harps and whatever else I expected at a fae political gala, what’s playing is something I heard on the radio literally yesterday. It’s upbeat. Catchy. Definitely top-100 show material. I can’t see any speakers. There’s no band. No DJ booth. The music just exists, as if the air itself decided to hum along. Of course it does.

I edge my way around the perimeter of the room, keeping close to the wall. The last thing I need is to get swept into the centre of this glittering chaos. If I’m going to find Lord Rowl, I need a vantage point. A quiet corner. A plan. Several guests glance at me as I pass. Some look amused. Others are curious. A few look faintly insulted. It’s hard to tell if the odd looks are because I’m human, because I’m underdressed, or because I’m wearing enough iron to make a medieval knight jealous. Probably all three. 

I finally find a small gap in the corner where I can stand without being immediately in someone’s way. From here, I scan the crowd. This would be significantly easier if I read gossip magazines. Then I might know what Lord Rowl is supposed to look like. Instead, I’m just searching for someone who looks powerful. Which, unfortunately, seems to apply to most of the room. The music shifts mid-thought again. This time, it slides seamlessly into something slower. Older. More classical. Strings swell, elegant and haunting. I huff a quiet breath. I guess if the fae live a very long time, they’ve had plenty of opportunity to collect favourite songs from every era. We’re apparently doing a full musical tour of the centuries tonight. Wonderful. All I have to do now is locate the most powerful shapeshifting fae in the city… In a room full of ancient, beautiful predators. Easy.