I nod to Lincoln. “Don’t worry. I got this.” Closing my eyes, I pull back my hood, raise my hand, and call out to the igni. They appear faster than ever before, their music and laughter quickly drowning out anything else in my head. Their tiny bodies whirl about my hand, almost blocking my view of the tent’s interior.

I watch their light swirl about my fingertips, then I order them to break free. Let’s show this King what trouble really is. With a burst of laughter, they obey.

Moving in a small knot of bodies, the igni zoom about the tent, knocking over candlesticks and upending chairs. Like a great pinwheel, they spin about in the center of the room, faster and faster. A high-pitched hum fills the air and then—POOF—they all disappear.

I grin. How’s that for trouble?

An icy chill freezes my skin; my eyes glow bright blue. Opening them slowly, I glare directly at the King, speaking in the nastiest voice I can muster. “I’m the Scala Heir, Connor. I’m not in trouble.” My eyes blaze with blue fire. “I am trouble.”

The tent’s interior comes back into focus. Lincoln stands beside me, his body rigid and his expression unreadable. Octavia sits beside Connor’s chair, her face a stony mask. The King stares at me for a long minute, his features blank. I have to consciously stop myself from sticking my tongue out at him. Nyah.

The King breaks the silence by slamming his fist onto the wooden table. My body snaps into battle stance, my tail arched over my shoulder. Want a piece of me? I’d like to see you try, big guy.

“Well, well.” Connor’s great head wags from side to side. “I’ll be damned.” He breaks into peals of loud, deep, and rolling laughter.

He’s laughing? Really?!

I squint at the King. The igni must have short-circuited my senses; that can’t be actual guffaws. I turn to Lincoln, my face wrinkled with confusion. “Are we good here?”

Lincoln nods. “Oh, yeah. He’s loving this.” The Prince leans in closer, satisfaction and pride shining in his eyes. “Well played, Myla.” My insides turn all happy and squirmy as he gently kisses my cheek. I didn’t know I was playing a game, but it looks like I hit the masterstroke.

Connor rubs his eyes with his meaty fingers. “Lincoln, my boy. What a treasure you are.” The King points to me. “And you! A spitfire.” He gestures to the empty chairs across from him. “Have a seat, both of you. Let’s talk a bit, see what we can do here.” He looks to his left. “Octavia, I’m sure you’re behind this. At least in part?”

A ghost of a smile lurks about the Queen’s mouth. “Always, Connor.” She’s a crafty one, that’s for certain.