Nuala’s sweater is a really lovely pumpkin color, but I feel like a neon orange emergency cone when I trail Draken back into the great room. People are back at their seats, finishing dinner, but as soon as I walk in, there’s a massive clatter of forks and the hushed chatter dies.

Draken points to a spot by the elder’s table. “Stay there.”

He doesn’t bother to look back at me when he gives the order. He’s striding toward the A-roster table with a purpose.

I clutch the hem of the cardigan, stretching it as low as it can go.

People are staring at my messed-up leg. Thomas Fane’s fang...