From the corner of his eye, Taric saw Syrano disappearing through one of the larger archways. Temporarily abandoning dignity, Taric hurried after him.

“Am I pretty?”

Out of nowhere, a creature sprang up in front of Taric, cutting him off. Lank black hair hung from its scalp, dripping down over its pale, genderless body. Huge yellow eyes bulged from dark sockets, avidly looking Taric up and down. But the worst aspect of the thing was its horrid grin, blood red lips stretching unnaturally wide across its face to reveal rows of rotting shark’s teeth.

Its foul breath reeked of carrion and sulfur as it repeated, “Am I pretty?” The words emitted from its throat, its grin unmoving.

Taric froze, the hairs on his arms standing on end. “Yes, you’re pretty scary,” he said with the best veneer of calm that he could muster.

The thing sharply tilted its head as if confused. Its body twitched to one side and back, faster than the eye could follow. “Am I pretty?” Its face grew closer to Taric’s.

Taric inadvertently tightened his grip on the case handles, fighting to keep his face neutral. “Yes, you’re pretty scary.”

The creature leaned in, wild yellow eyes fixated on Taric’s, its terrible grin splitting open to release a wash of stinking breath directly into Taric’s face. “Am. I. Pre-”

The creature found itself summarily shoved aside by a black-clad arm. The gloved hand reached out and seized Taric by the shoulder.

“We don’t have time to play,” Syrano said irritably, dragging Taric past the thing.

Shaken, Taric let himself be dragged, feeling the creature’s eerie stare against his back.

Syrano didn’t look at Taric, nor anywhere but straight ahead for several excruciatingly long seconds. Nor did he slow his brusque stride. 

“Stay close, human,” Syrano said at last with a quick, assessing glance in Taric’s direction that betrayed an unexpected flash of concern. “Well done.”

Taric tensely nodded. Of course Syrano was still obligated to see him safely before the king; and besides, Taric still carried the two cases of shoes. The thing caught him off guard, and he wanted to kick himself for not paying attention for even a moment. Now he felt hyper-aware of every shadow, every movement in the recesses of the arched hall. He’d barely made it through the door; he didn’t want to start pulling the tricks from his sleeve just yet.

Between Syrano’s unhesitating stride and Taric’s grim scowl, the pair of them must have made for an intimidating combination, because when the great tangle of roots that constituted the doors to the Great Hall opened wide to admit them, the fae at the back of the crowd scattered out of their way.

The Eldritch King’s Great Hall opened up before them, the ceiling lost somewhere above in complete darkness, while the floor of polished obsidian created an illusion that the fae gathered there in the court floated in an eerie abyss. The walls, periodically broken up by thick, living columns of twisted vines, were made of preternaturally clear mirrors, every color and texture replicated in sharp detail. 

At the far, far end, lifted high on an obsidian dais, the Eldritch King’s throne waited for his arrival. Grown from a single, smooth crystal, it glittered like sunbeams shining through ice. Behind it splayed twelve small, pearl chairs.

Between them and the dais milled the waiting fae. A few clumped together but most of them jealously guarded a patch of floor alone. Syrano pushed forward, shoving his way between other fae as he saw fit, with Taric in his wake. 

Taric felt the burn of hungry eyes against his skin. But to his surprise, his ears caught whispers of “human,” and “iron warrior,” uttered in fearful tones.

As Syrano boldly pushed toward the very front of the Great Hall, Taric noticed a small party of winter fae taking particularly dismayed note of them. A woman with frosted ice hair started moving toward them, the expression on her face stricken, only to be halted by the man next to her, whose steely eyes were clearly weighing the practicalities of firing sharpened icicles Syrano’s way. Both he and the man standing at his other side bore a striking resemblance to the winter prince forging ahead of Taric, stoically focused on nothing but the dais ahead.

Dismayed, Taric started forming a theory. 

“How many brothers do you have?” Taric muttered under his breath for Syrano’s ears alone. 

“Three,” Syrano said flatly. Then after a heartbeat, “Of six.”

Bite your tongue, Taric admonished himself. You’re going to regret this. Don’t do it. But he already found himself sighing in resignation. “You’re the youngest.” And his older brother was supposed to be the one taking the king’s challenge. The brother who stood across the room with their parents, deciding if it would be worthwhile to have Syrano’s heart served out on a platter. No wonder he looked so murderous; if Syrano succeeded in line jumping, it would break a Rule. Potentially wasting the literal sacrifices they’d already made.

But Taric could fully imagine how painful it would be to lose half of your brothers, yet still be expected to wait for the rest to die before having the chance to put an end to it.

Stop it. Stop feeling sympathetic. Taric’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding. You came here for a purpose. That purpose was not to help some fae princeling win a challenge. …. Ah, hell.

Taric saw his entire carefully laid plan, all of his precisely chosen words, all of his preparations, all burning up like a moth in a lantern.

Taric quickly scrambled to re-think his entire plan.

Somehow - ah, hell - he had to figure out the secrets of twelve dancing fae princesses before they found a way to destroy steel shoes.