Instead of leading me straight towards the ceremony, Gustus takes the back route that circles the woods and keeps us hidden from the eyes of the guests. Streaming lights break through the clustered trees, the echoes of drunken voices wafting through to us with hardly any effort at all. I hold up the skirts of my dress to avoid catching the tulle on any unruly weeds, but the prince deposits me in the shadows before anything goes awry. And I'm not the only one here.

Both of the queen's lovers, apparently, cannot show their faces to the public eye. They're looked down upon and shamed as whores for their only use being what they provide to the queen in her bedchamber. Like me, they wait amongst the trees to watch the ceremony. Without the queen at their side, they're livelier. Like breathing, heart-beating individuals.

"Thank you," I say as Mutes takes my hand and guides me over a large boulder that my skirts would otherwise catch on.

He nods. Right, he doesn't speak.

Both Friava and Mutes are dressed handsomely for an occasion they won't attend. The deep neckline of Friava's marine gown dips past her breasts and nearly reaches her navel, exposing a bare, freckled chest. She sways back and forth to the distant instruments-the chime of a flute and gentle strum of a lute. The placid smile on her face doesn't come to life until she acknowledges my presence with a dip of her chin, closing those soulless teal eyes to hide the loneliness there.

Mutes chose a simple doublet. The vertical stripes extend from puffed shoulder to wrist, and the brass buttons clamp against the base of his throat. I never noticed before, but Mutes appears handsome when he isn't around the woman that forced him into this life. He's more like himself, if there is something within him that still possesses a shred of personality.

Unlike most guards or warriors or even the queen's children, he's lanky and thin. Not drastically, the faint muscles against his flat abdomen are easy to pick out amongst the doublet's durable fabric. The rumors about his weakness have spread far and wide to my ears from servants, the royals themselves, and courtiers in the dining hall gossiping about matters they know nothing about. The Queen's Whore-they label him. At least, he's one. Friava doesn't face the brunt of their spews, they blame Mutes for not possessing the courage to stand up for himself. I never understood the concept of targeting one more over the other.

My stomach seizes with awkwardness as I smooth out my dress and stand at Mutes's wordless side. As still as a statue, his walnut-brown eyes, protruding from his oval face, stare out towards the wooden stage. I take a gander myself, studying the lights draping over the elevated platform-empty at the moment. Even if the royal family hasn't presented themselves yet, guards match Mutes's unmoving form and don't bother mingling with the crowd while framing the stage like a wall of impenetrable bodies.

"You look beautiful tonight."

Ice crystallizes in my veins and I place a hand against my chest in shock at the sound of Mutes' voice erupting from his throat. He smiles at me without humor. I steel myself and say, "I thought you couldn't speak."

A grin touches his lips. "My queen is not currently present; I am free to do as I wish." His voice is soft and deep, the sound of someone yielding for no reason other than because it is all they know. "Though Friava may not think the same, my voice needs work now and then."

A burble of laughter ruptures through the trees and a dancing figure, a woman in a wide gown with steeples of wide fabric hanging off her shoulders, flutters past, twirling in the air. Her date follows her, urging her to slow down for she may trip over her skirts and break an ankle. The woman goes on without a care.

Mutes watches them longingly. Thinking back to his compliment, I fluster. "Thank you...for saying what you said," I stutter. My brows push together. "You look nice as well."

He stands up straighter at that, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin high. At first, his face brightens in thanks, and I expect those words to leave his mouth, but his expression quickly hardens into something else. Regret. "Queen's orders."

"Well, you look lovely. Both of you." I crane my neck around the queen's male lover to catch a glance at Friava, but she continues to sway. Completely oblivious to the world around her. Someone could shout that they're about to stab her, and she wouldn't move.

I wonder if she can hear us at all or if the music truly takes over whenever she listens, but that isn't a question for me to ask. What the queen does to permanently rid her lovers of a personality is not my business.

"Don't bother with her," Mutes whispers, leaning close so she can't hear. His warm scent of almond and honey rushes into my nose, trapping me in a daze-like state. "She stopped having real thoughts long ago."

"Do you have any idea why?" I ask, burning with curiosity.

Mutes simply shrugs. "The queen tried out a spell. It worked, apparently. The only problem was that she didn't know how to rid Friava of the spell, so she never leaves this lost, unintelligent state."

Hearing his voice still throws me off. All this time, I didn't believe he had one, nor knew how to speak if he did. I expected the words to come out choppily, like rough letters over a page, but he speaks better than most I've heard. Why would the queen wish to shut down his voice, the true essence of his being? Mutes' voice is one of the loveliest sounds I have heard in a long time, and especially so next to the loud crowds bustling in the courtyard. They swell like bees, drifting from one place to another to admire the royal gardens or the statues clustered in vines and decay.

Chaska's familiar face breaks through the crowd, dancing with a man I don't recognize. She holds a chalice of wine in her hand and throws the other arm in the air, laughing dizzily with the person whose hands graze her hip. A burning protection rises in my stomach, brought to life by the Luminary connection between us, but I cap a lid over it and blink away the stupor. Chaska is an adult; she can do as she wishes. But I urge her to behave carefully around strangers.

"What a shame," I respond to distract myself from Chaska. "I bet Friava was a lovely person."

"All I know is that she loved to fly. She took to the skies whenever she wished until our queen stole her conscience. Now the wings are useless. They're best used for warmth rather than escape."

I lean back, examining the crisp white wings hanging from Friava's shoulder blades. She carries them gingerly, like poised children on her back, and I can't imagine thinking of the weight she must bear while walking, talking, or just standing upright. I reach out my hand to stroke a feather on the end but halt back. She may turn into a different beast if riled; that innocent face holds more than a lack of conscious.

The chime of a bell rings out, chattering my teeth, and I stumble back from the sheer force of the sound. Mutes' hand presses into the small of my back, keeping me from falling, and I silently thank him with blushed cheeks. Claiming's Eve has me on edge; everything appears to set off my nerves. Mutes' voice, Chaska in the arms of a stranger, and that annoying bell that chimes during every half day and half night.

The crowd calms, muttering to themselves. Like herded cattle, they halt at the base of the stage where a bishop, a man I've seen around the palace on multiple occasions, ascends the steps with his head bowed low. He adorns a white tunic with long sleeves, an alb accompanying the base of his ensemble. His robes, a long black cincture made of linen, nearly brushes against the floor of the wooden stage, the cuffed wrists ornamented with golden buttons-the statuette of a raven with spread wings gleaming in the firelight of adjoining torches.

More bodies flood the area, coming from all directions in response to the starting of the ceremony. My heart pounds within my chest, threatening to break my ribs and take my lungs with it. I memorize their faces; the glitter decorating their cheekbones and fluttering gowns of all different designs and makes. The elaborate hairstyles and trimmed facial hair, top hats, and golden accents. They'll watch as Cloak stakes his claim.

My stomach leaps into my throat when another familiar face comes into view. He tips a chalice of wine to his lips, whispering to an unfamiliar man at his side. I have spoken to Rylan enough to know how his lips move. How long is this supposed to take?

The man at his side chuckles but doesn't respond. Rylan moves on, shifting through the crowd until he reaches the end, and stops. Too close. Only a few trees bathed in darkness separates us, and my only shield is both of the queen's lovers. He turns his head without care, seemingly searching for something, and a small gasp leaves my lips.

Rylan squints into the dark and I rush behind Mutes, gripping onto the sides of his doublet to hold him in place. He doesn't move. I dip my head between his shoulder blades, shrinking myself into the smallest beast possible, and squeeze my eyes shut. "Is he gone?" I whisper after a few moments have passed, and the bishop has started his speech.

"Yes," Mutes responds, his voice just as quiet. He turns, again smiling down at my lack of professionalism. "Who is that?"

I return to his side, careful of the grabby nature of the woods. "That is my husband, Rylan Aubenet. He isn't aware of the claiming tonight."

Mutes watches his head bobbing through the crowd. Rylan shifts his shoulders, turning to the side to avoid bumping into anyone. He's looking for me. Stopping at Chaska's side, he doesn't receive the answer he desires, so he pushes through once more, towards the back to search for me there. At least he didn't turn back towards the woods to find that moving figure amongst the trees.

"I suppose we are in for more of a spectacle than I originally thought," Mutes mumbles.

Rubbing my hands over the boned bodice of my gown, sensing the ache there, I swallow hard. "I suppose so."

The bishop goes through the introductions that take place during every Claiming's Eve. He speaks in a steady, hard voice and appears to address every person standing beneath him, watching the spectacle in an unfathomable amount of awe.

The first king of Rivian created Claiming's Eve to control his people. At that point, rebellions raved the land and damaged the livelihood of reputable forces, leaving the king with no other choice than to resort to their beastly nature. Back then, claims had more of an appeal than they do now. Many used them as a sure-fire method to control others by injecting their venom when biting through flesh. The venom, of animal nature, bound the claimed to the claimer until one died.

As beasts these days don't possess venom, nor do they use claims to control others, Claiming's Eve has turned into more of a celebration for winter's arrival rather than the queen demonstrating her authority to the land. Back then, a claiming from the king caused a ripple effect. Once the citizens realized he was willing to reach such drastic measures, they backed off and obeyed to his law changes regarding higher taxes or less pay for farmworkers.

The tradition continued once he realized putting on a spectacle worked the first time. Each year, one unlucky member of the kingdom became bound to the king for life when he bit into their neck, injecting venom into their blood, and forced them to live at the palace for the rest of their lives. Normally, he killed them before they passed from natural causes.

As royal lineage descended to the following king, the tradition continued, only without the use of venom. Control receded, and further down the line, the celebration became less about what the royals wanted to label as their own. The bodies of beasts adjusted and venom vanished after lack of use. Even if Claiming's Eve centers more towards winter's arrival, the fact such an event exists at all proves the Raven Queen wishes for more than loyalty from her people.

She craves fear.

The bishop steps to the side, dropping to his knee as the Raven Queen, dawning a sweeping black gown made entirely of raven feathers, ascends the steps. Her guards flank her, most of them labeled as the strongest beasts in the palace. The wide, tall collar of her high neck gown reaches higher than her head, the feathers branching out like a bird in flight.

Tight skirts hug her body like a mermaid's tail. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of her startling beauty, the constraint radiating from her being. Clattering bodies drop to the ground in a bow, the rush of wide skirts billowing around the thin bodies of women and the rounded edges of canes thumping against stone. She stands over them all, her chin tilted high as she takes in their exposed necks.

Swipes of black shadow extend past her eyes, seeping into her hairline. A stream of glitter underlines that dark abyss, arching around to hold up her accented cheekbone. Her lips are painted a similar shade to the feathers, but I catch a glint of deep blue and purple gloss iridescent like northern lights.

A muscle jumps in Mutes' jaw and he forces himself to look anywhere else other than the woman on the stage. I wish to draw my arm around him, but he doesn't ask for comfort. He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes sweeping over the dirt covered in pine needles and discarded leaves.

Following his mother comes Gustus, then Setsuko, followed by Cloak and Aela. Each of them resembles their mother in wardrobe, only without the wide feathers escaping her collar. Cloak opted for a simple doublet like his brother, only without the frilled sleeves and golden accents. Not a single break in color mars the black outfit covering him from toe to throat.

He looks down upon the crowd, hands folded behind his back, and smirks down at Rylan kneeling towards the front. I hadn't noticed him make his way back with another chalice in his hand.

A rush of fabric sounds from the crowd after the queen urges them to stand. They brush off their clothes, breathing a sigh of relief once they realize their heads are still on their shoulders and this isn't the Claiming's Eve that'll turn deadly before they have a chance to escape. My thoughts travel to the thought of intrusion, assassination, and I drift my stare to Cloak.

Any number of these people could hurt him, and for a split second, I'm glad I'll stand on the stage as a defense against an attack. Then I remember Rylan and think otherwise.

The bishop takes a small clay bowl of charcoal in his hands. Dipping two fingers into the contents and taking a swipe, a stream of thick black ink coats his skin. He stops in front of Gustus. "Crown Prince Gustus Terravale, future ruler of Rivian and first son of Millicent Terravale, you receive an official mark of Claiming's Eve," the bishop rules.

He reaches up, swiping the black charcoal across both sides of Gustus's forehead, sweeping his fingers down to cradle across his cheekbones and jawline, spikes of black breaking away from the solid stream to frame the prince's face. I never understood the purpose of the markings until finding out the truth for myself. The charcoal acts as a cleansing agent to ward off angered spirits of Claiming's Eve past. Though foolish, the crowd dips their head and murmurs gratitude to the Luminary Gods as the bishop takes slow steps towards Setsuko.

She receives a similar introduction, followed by two swiping lines underneath both eyes. They bridge across her nose, connecting as one, trailed by a single stream down the middle of her forehead as if descending from her hairline. She doesn't move. An icy exterior never breaks.

My stomach seizes with fear when he stops at Cloak's unmoving body. "Prince Jett Terravale, deemed Cloak in all expenditures of ridding this land of its fearless magic, leader of Panjandrum Corps and controller of beasts, you receive an official mark of Claiming's Eve."

I hold my breath. The bishop raises his fingers to the side of Cloak's face, just underneath his eye, and traces a jagged triangle that connects to a serrated black line bordering around his pointed ear and stopping at his jaw. Great, it's over.

But the bishop drops his hand lower, carving an intricate line with the charcoal over Cloak's chin. A half-circle underneath his mouth, bordered by two marks that branch outward, reaching towards the corners of his frown. I don't understand the markings or where they come from; if the bishop makes them up, or these supposed Gods move through him, but the crowd mutters once more.

Aela snarls at the bishop and he hurries through her introduction, marking straight down her forehead and over her nose, drawing a crooked slash through her eye and across her cheek-stopping at her strong jaw. The Raven Queen is the only member that won't receive these honors of clarity.

The bishop folds his hands over his front. "Now-let the claiming begin."