Mira’s heart stuttered when the laundry room door burst open again.

It was Sorrel.

She stood in the doorway, one hip cocked, lips painted blood-red, eyes gleaming with the kind of smug satisfaction that always meant trouble.

“Come on, cunts,” she drawled, voice dripping condescension. “You’re being summoned.”

The room erupted.

“Who the hell are you calling a cunt?” Martha snapped, stepping forward like she might throw hands.

Sorrel rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Spare me the outrage. You’ve all been called worse by better. Now move. The Head of Slaves wants every slave even the collared and uncollared blood slave in the Grand Hall. Now.”

Liv crossed her arms. “Both heads? The Thirstbeing and vamperina?”

Sorrel’s smile sharpened. “Yes, darling. Lord Gorak himself and Mistress Veyra. So unless you want to explain to him why you’re dawdling, get your lazy asses moving.”

Mira pushed herself up the wall, legs still unsteady. The ache between her thighs flared with every step, but she forced herself forward. No one argued with Lord Gorak. Not when he was the one who decided which slaves lived and which disappeared into the lower cells.

They filed out in a tense, muttering line—over a hundred slaves from every corner of the tower: laundry girls, kitchen drudges, bed warmers, blood donors, collared pets with jeweled throats, uncollared ones with plain iron bands. Mira stayed near the back, head down, trying to be invisible.

The walk to the Grand Hall felt endless. Whispers raced up and down the line.

“Why summon everyone?” someone hissed.

“Maybe the Consort Rite prep,” another answered. “They need extra hands for the guests.”

“Guests?” Liv muttered beside Mira. “You mean the Faes?”

“And more,” Claudia whispered back. “Word is the delegation isn’t just Seelie and Unseelie. The Werewolf Clans sent representatives, House of Silver Fang and House of Crimson Claw. The Djinn Sultanate sent emissaries from House of Saffron Veil. Even the Merfolk sent envoys from the Coral Court. All of them bringing high-born daughters or prized bloodlines for the Rite.”

Martha, walking ahead, glanced back with a grim smile. “High Lord Vuk isn’t the only one trying to curry favor with Kairo. Everyone wants a piece of the Thirstborn’s power. A consort alliance could shift the whole damn empire.”

Mira’s stomach twisted. She kept her eyes on the floor, trying not to picture that dark-haired man from the corridor, his rings, his accent, the way he’d looked at her like she was something precious and ruined at the same time.

They reached the Grand Hall.

Over a hundred slaves filled the space, kneeling in neat rows on the polished black marble. At the far end, on a raised platform, stood Lord Gorak—tall, pale, silver-haired, eyes like frozen blood. Beside him, human slave-head Mistress Veyra, older, stern, iron collar gleaming at her throat held a scroll.

Silence fell like a blade.

Lord Draven’s voice rolled out, cold and commanding.

“The Consort Rite approaches. Guests from across the realms have arrived: the Seelie and Unseelie Courts of Faerie, the Werewolf Clans of Silver Fang and Crimson Claw, the Djinn Houses of Saffron Veil and Obsidian Flame, the Merfolk of Coral Court and Abyssal Tide. Ten great houses in total. Each has been assigned chambers in the upper spires.”