Rowan Delk wore an iron collar, but she planned to trade it for a wedding ring. The lord who locked the band at her throat did not yet know this. Tonight the lord had summoned her to serve wine at a feast for visiting nobles. One wrong word, one spilled cup, and Rowan would be whipped in front of the whole court. She meant to use the night to prove she was worth more than a servant. She meant to stand beside the lord as an equal, not kneel below her. The great hall glittered with stained glass and candle smoke. Rowan carried the wine tray with a steady hand. Nobles watched her the way they watched a dog that might bite. She met each stare and did not blink first. The lord sat at the high table, cold and beautiful, waiting for Rowan to fail. One noble reached out and gripped Rowan's wrist. He tugged the collar and laughed. "This one still has fire. Someone should beat it out." Wine trembled in the cups. If Rowan pulled free or spoke back, the whip would answer. A voice cut across the table before Rowan could move. "Let go of her." The speaker was Lyralei Thornwood, the half-fae diplomat who had come to bargain terms with the lord. Silver hair spilled over a gown stitched with gold. Her eyes were violet and hard. She was the one noble at the feast who studied Rowan with interest instead of contempt. She set down her cup and stood, and the hall went quiet. "You strike the lord's servant," Lyralei said, "you insult the lord's household. Is that your gift to your host?" The noble dropped Rowan's wrist. He muttered an apology and sat. Lyralei turned to Rowan. "Pour for me," she said. Her voice was gentle now. As Rowan filled the cup, Lyralei spoke low, for Rowan alone. "You carry yourself like a lady, not a slave. That is dangerous here. It could also be useful." Rowan looked at the lord. The lord watched Lyralei with a tight, careful expression Rowan had never seen before. Not anger. Something closer to worry. In that moment Rowan understood: the lord feared losing this diplomat's favor. And the diplomat had just chosen to favor Rowan. "Come to me before you serve again," Lyralei whispered. "There is a quiet corner past the willow ornament in the west gallery. We should talk about what you want." Rowan finished pouring. She had survived the feast. She had done more than survive. A powerful guest now saw value in her, and the lord had noticed. The collar still sat cold at her throat. But for the first time, Rowan held a card the lord did not. She bowed and stepped back. The whip had not fallen. A door had opened instead, and Rowan meant to walk through it.