London, 1811

The attack happened at one of those bloody masques King Oberon and his Dark Court had once been so fond of hosting.

Those of the Elder Races—along with a select few humans chosen for their Power and political influence—traveled from around the world to attend Oberon’s masques, and all England knew that whatever the weather, snow always fell in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens on the winter solstice.

The guests were treated to a lavish array of exotic foods and mulled wine, magic, and mystery, all served by attendants dressed in spotless, intricately embroidered white uniforms. Intrigues always occurred along with intimate conversations amid the entertainment. Illicit affairs were pursued in the shadows. Treaties were born and sometimes broken, and there was always the opportunity to forge new alliances.

But mostly the annual festival was Oberon’s way of saying fuck you to his greatest enemy, Isabeau and her Light Court. The richness of the revelry, the contrived excess—it all said, we dance in spite of you. We thrive.

Until at one masque, Oberon stood watching a swirl of costumed dancers. As he cast a silent spell, large flakes of clear ice drifted down from a cloudless midnight sky as if the frozen stars themselves fell to earth.

The flakes reflected pagan color from nearby bonfires until the air glittered with brilliant gold and piercing light. All dancers came to a halt, and everyone stared upward in awe while fey music raced through the clearing at a hectic pace.

Laughter broke out along with applause, even among the most Powerful and jaded of the guests. Oberon smiled to see one pretty Vampyre reaching up with a slender white hand to catch a flake. She stared, eyes wide with wonder as the glittering ice melted in her fingers.

A sharp sting pierced Oberon’s neck along with a sense of alien magic. It broke his concentration, and the weather spell fractured.

His reactions were swift and catlike, but even as he slapped one gloved hand over the spot and focused fiercely on it, the brief pain faded. He spun around, his gaze racing over the crowd.

It had been an attack. He had no doubt.

His gaze fell on one individual, a tall, handsome man in elegant evening attire, wearing a plain black domino. The man held a hollow reed between the fingers of one gloved hand.

His direct hazel gaze met Oberon’s. “I have killed you on the orders of the Light Fae Queen, and I must say I am sorry for it.”

Oberon’s lips drew back in a snarl. A roar burst from his throat as he lunged forward to slaughter the transgressor. Even as he sprang forward, an intense wave of dizziness struck him down.

Sharp voices soared overhead like the raw screech of hunting hawks. He recognized Nikolas and Gawain even as he turned his focus inward again, searching for that deadly thread of alien magic.

There it was, the enemy that had invaded his body. The magic wriggled deeper, seeking to enter his bloodstream. Where it touched, coldness spread.

Panicked hands gripped his arms, and another, more feral voice intruded upon his awareness: Robin. “Sire, what happened?”

“Assassins,” he managed to hiss.

He did not need to say more. His knights roared through the milling crowd, cutting short the festivities with drawn swords. Trusting them to do their jobs, he closed his eyes and concentrated everything on stopping the malicious spell from completing its work.

Time passed while he tried spell after spell to counteract the attack. The masque ended early, and everyone went home. Over the next few weeks his knights roamed the streets of London, hunting the Light Queen’s Hound, Morgan le Fae, for that was who the assassin had been. They never located the sorcerer. He had simply vanished, apparently into thin air.

Oberon retreated to the country, then eventually back to Lyonesse, where he continued to search for ways to eradicate the magic that attacked him from within. Some spells seemed to work, at least temporarily, and for a while the progress of the magic halted.

He gained a measure of respite

Weeks, months. Even years.

But each time, after a period of stasis, the bastard evil that invaded his body reawakened and burrowed deeper, always aiming for his heart.

It caused undeniable damage. He could feel himself changing. The closer the magic came to his heart, the colder he grew. Colder in his thinking, in his emotions. He grew crueler, more calculating.