In the council room, Erik paced in front of the fireplace. His long dark robe swished with every turn. Night had fallen and the roaring fire was the only source of light because of the headache he'd had all day. A headache that came from a lack of sleep and from all the shit with the Undines, with Dranadak, and now this manifesto and all the chaos that it had brought. A copy of the blasted thing was on a table next to him and he'd almost set it on fire, but no, he'd restrained his temper. The Undines were still out of control and there were now protests in the Dranadak Territory. Apparently, some of the faeries thought that the former Lord Dranadak had gotten off light with his sentencing. Chants, about justice for Cassandra and the many females that had died at the hands of males, echoed through Dranadak Square. Erik sighed and poured himself a glass of brandy and knocked it back, relishing the burn in his throat.

The door creaked open.

Valerio, Flynn, and Damon strode around the gigantic, opulent table that was in the middle of the room. Valerio's black Spy Captain uniform was crisp and neat. His jaw was tight and his skin was paler than usual.

Captain Flynn's hazel eyes were wary, his caramel hair tousled, erudium helmet tucked under his arm. Damon wore a pale blue tunic and dark pants. His face was worn and his blond hair was as messy as Flynn's.

All three bowed, noting the shadows under the king's eyes, the weary yet angry twist to his mouth.

"I need all of you to find out who wrote this manifesto and bring them in for an interrogation." Erik's nostrils flared, then he turned to Valerio and pointed at the manifesto on the table. "I need you to test that for any fae essences. Even though I suspect the terrorist responsible would've been smart enough to cover their tracks. Still, I need you to make sure."

Valerio picked up the manifesto with a black gloved hand and placed it in a hessian bag. "We tested other copies of the manifesto earlier, Your Majesty, and found no traces of essence other than that of the fae or faeries who'd handed them in."

"This copy is different. It was found on a trail in the woods, near Peachtree Lane, by a guard on patrol. I think it was dropped by the perpetrator of this whole mess."

"Peachtree Lane?" A thoughtful look drifted across Valerio's face. "I'll send my spies to investigate the area."

"Good," said Erik. He turned to Flynn. "I need your guards to interview all the Golights in the village. See if there are any clues as to who put this manifesto in their letterboxes. Interrogate the post office as well."

Flynn nodded, caramel hair glinting in the firelight. "I shall, Your Majesty."

"Damon, I need you to have The Golight Daily run an article on how this manifesto is misinformation concocted by terrorists. Put in the article that if anyone has a copy of it then they'll be jailed in the Sidhe Prison for a minimum of fifty years."

"Of course, Father." Damon nodded. Valerio had informed him that the manifesto was full of treasonous lies, so he was in full agreement with the punishment. A copy of the manifesto awaited Damon in his room, but he'd been too busy with other matters to read it. As he'd predicted, the Undines were not as compliant as his father and the lords had hoped. Under brute force they'd rebelled even more, emerging stronger as if they were diamonds formed under pressure. Insubordination had spread throughout Golah Court like a virus, which was the opposite of what the lords and king had wanted.

Erik dismissed Damon, Flynn, and Valerio by turning his back on them. Light framed his silhouette as he stared at the crackling fire.

Valerio, Flynn, and Damon left the room without further word. It had been a while since they'd caught up and had an ale. Had a laugh. They'd all been too busy with damage control. There'd been no time for leisure or friendship. Valerio slipped away into a shadow in the hallway. Flynn marched off, armor clanking as wisteria petals fluttered over him like lilac rain.

As per protocol, a messenger waited by the council room doors. Damon told the messenger, a small goblin in a pale tunic, to fetch The Golight Daily's new Chief Editor to the castle. The messenger bowed then raced off.

Damon climbed a quartz staircase that curved around a humongous tree. Fireflies and pixies wove through the green leaves. It hadn't shed its leaves for winter because it was enchanted to bloom all year round. He went into his bedroom and shut the door. Dianthus, honeysuckle, and paper lingered in the air. Stacks of parchment were on his desk, contracts and laws that he hadn't signed yet. He flopped onto his plush maroon duvet and stared up at the gold and maroon brocade curtains that canopied his bed. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted.

Damon hadn't even had the chance to train Morgana.

He'd barely spoken a word to Aelys.

He missed them.

Especially Morgana. He missed their friendship. He didn't know what caused the rift between them. Damon had thought, day and night, about what he'd done or hadn't done for Morgana to turn cold on him. But he'd never figured it out. Maybe Morgana was just growing up and she didn't have time for her brother anymore. Either way it didn't change the empty feeling in his gut whenever he thought about her.

Damon used his earth magic to float the manifesto, on his bedside table, over to his bed. He figured he'd better know what he was talking about before he ordered Lilith to write an article about the manifesto. He'd need to provide specific examples of their lies, so that he could dispute the claims and make it look like the misinformation that it was. The fact that the author, or authors, hadn't put their names on the manifesto would be something he'd use to discredit them. No authorial identity meant no credibility as far as Damon was concerned.

But as Damon began reading the manifesto something strange happened. When he got to the part about the witches' innocence, pain bolted through his skull as if he'd been struck by a rock.

"Ouch." He dropped the manifesto and clutched his forehead.

An image of Morgana in the training room wavered in front of him.

He shook his head.

What was that?

He looked down at the manifesto, at the words that swam before his eyes. The witches' magic was not poisonous. He frowned, staring at the sentence as a strange familiarity tugged at him.