As proud of a creature as he was, Chat Noir could admit when he'd been wrong. Occasionally.

This was one such occasion. Alcohol was a marvelous invention, and it was obvious why men used it to solve their problems.

It made things simple.

All loathsome uncertainty had just washed away, and now Chat was walking through the world with a sparkling clarity to his thoughts he hadn't experienced since the early days of his taming. His path forward was suddenly so clear that this obnoxious whisper of doubt had faded away entirely.

Not even being all but strong-armed to dance with the Changeling could sour his mood, even as she pursed her lips and cast a judging glare over Chat's shoulder as they joined the whirl of dancing couples.

"I see you're still favoring the childhood friend."

"Indeed." And he didn't much care for the interruption. Chat's sense of balance had taken a slight knock from the human drink, and he had little idea of how to dance on two legs besides. But if the Changeling insisted on dragging him away, well, Chat was just petty enough to enjoy the thought of her having to deal with an uncoordinated partner.

Yet when he laid one arm on her waist, the other on her shoulder, his feet started carrying him through the song's steps without hesitation, as if he'd practiced them a hundred times.

Her scowl deepened, and the heavy weight of her glamor enveloped him, ensuring that nearby humans would hear naught but idle chatter. "Have you not considered what I said?"

"I have. After much deliberation, I have decided there is no need to fix what is not broken." Or to break what was whole.

"Is that what you think, Your Grace?"

His smile turned into bared teeth at the implied accusation as the dance demanded he sweep her into a twirl. "It is, indeed, what I think." Soon enough, Chat would turn Adrien's friends into his own, building a stash of secret loyalties and hoarded favors. Every fae ought to have one, so he'd start here.

True, human loyalty was not worth all that much and likely not worth guarding as jealously as a debt owed to another fae, but still…

Mine.

He'd staked his claim, and he'd have no other fae interfering.

"Adrien holds no sway," he said. "Trust me."

"Trust." Her nose crinkled as if the very taste of the word disgusted her. "Do you often so blithely demand something so priceless?"

"Well, I am supposed to be a spoiled prince, am I not?" Chat could not help the sardonic grin twisting his lips. "And you ask no less of me, to expect me to change my course of action on your say-so. We might both be our Lady's subjects, but you know as well as I that our Court has made backstabbing an artform. I trust only one person in the world, and you are not she. Nor are you even the one who was supposed to be my guide."

"Because she's dead! And we are on our own, surrounded by enemies, until the paths to Underhill open once more. Our numbers here are too few for us to bicker amongst ourselves."

"Has it ever occurred to you that she might still be alive if she hadn't so publicly spurned Lord Lahiffe?"

The thought had hit Chat as he'd been enraptured by Nino's haunting melody, and it had stirred anger. Faintly, he was aware that he should be sweeter in his phrasing, more conciliatory with his fellow fae, but his tongue was loosened by wine and made acerbic by her presence. Getting along with Nino was as easy as breathing, and it was plain to see that he had adored his fiancée. If Chloe's Changeling had bothered to put in just the slightest bit of effort, Nino could have been spared the pain and been none the wiser.

"Right after a solstice, too. I could think of no better signal to draw a hunter's attention to the fact that Chloe Bourgeois had changed."

Lady Rossi's lips pinched like she'd just bitten something sour, but she said nothing.

"I am… willing to compromise on the king," Chat said at length. For all that it had stung, he could not deny the truth in the Changeling's reasoning. The king had been ready to execute Chat upon first sight and there had been naught but contempt in his clouded eyes, even as he'd looked upon the face of his beloved son. He would not hesitate to kill you if he found out what you are. "But Lord Lahiffe is more useful as an ally than an enemy. Antagonizing him for flimsy reasons would only draw more suspicion to me, not less. And that is the last thing we need with hunters on our trail, no?"

"Well, look at you," she said, narrowed gaze scrutinizing his face. "Since when do you have a mind for tactics?"

Chat resisted the urge to hiss at the snipe at his intelligence. "Since always. Hunting is my area of expertise. Prey gives itself away with the disruptions it leaves behind in its environment. You rely too much on your enthrallments to cover your tracks instead of just blending in."

Anger sparked in her eyes and for a moment it seemed like she was about to snap a retort – but then she sighed and shook her head. "Very well."

He blinked, and suddenly his feet wouldn't quite dance in step as he lost his balance, not expecting her to yield. "Pardon?"

"I can see your mind is made up," she said, subtly adjusting her own steps to catch his fumble and returning their dance to its rhythm. "So if you wish to discard the wisdom we have learned over millennia, you are free to do so. Just remember that time passes quickly here, and the summer solstice is not so far away. You will have to account for your actions soon enough. And our Lady is not forgiving of failure."

The song faded as if to punctuate her words and she stepped out of his loose hold. Dropping into a curtsy, her gaze never left his before she turned on her heels and strode away.

Chat barked out a half-disbelieving laugh, ignoring the curious human gazes pivoting to face him.

Had he… had he truly just gotten a Nightmare courtier to concede a point? Even if her retreat was only temporary, this was – it was utterly unprecedented. When it came to putting his ideas into words – even when they'd made perfect sense in his head – he'd never been adept at shaping them quite as he'd wanted, leaving him to growl incoherently at those at Court who delighted in weaving verbal traps for him.

In those humiliating moments he'd always taken solace in the thought of one day becoming their Lord, that he would grow while they would stagnate. He could not say what had made him so certain, but there had never been doubt in his heart that he was meant to be more than he was.

Not that there was anything wrong with what he was.

But still.

He would be more.

With Adrien's help. Already the eloquence pilfered from the mirror was proving a boon to him. The prince had so much of what Chat coveted, so he would steal the bits he wanted and leave the rest. Prove his strong will to his Lady, showing her that her fears were unfounded. Then she'd have no cause to censure him.

An excited bounce in his step, he made his way back to the edges of the courtyard where he'd left his friend. Hm. But where had he gone? Chat's gaze roamed the people surrounding him and then flicked to the dancers to see if Nino had perhaps joined in with Lady Césaire.

When that yielded nothing, he carefully peeled back a layer of his glamor, subtly raising his chin to scent the air for a trail to follow.

cinnamon and sweets, a smell like the warmth of huddling under a blanket and sharing his favorite meal, muffled laughter in his ears and pride in his chest for coaxing it from her

Chat's head whipped around, lips parting as heat surged under his skin, the liquor's pleasant tingling taking on a sharper edge as he drank in the sight of Lady Mariposa standing not far from him.

Her sleek black hair glinted in the lanterns' sparse light, the silhouette of her profile aglow in the darkness. She was peering at one of the ice sculptures, a smaller piece in the shape of a butterfly. Her heavy shawl slipped as she raised her arm, gloved fingertips ghosting over the wings to trace the labyrinthine design etched within.

And then she smiled.

It was a small thing, this smile, neither particularly wide nor exuberant, but filled with a quiet sense of wonder and contentment.

A painful drum thumped in Chat's chest, his heart violently throwing itself against its confines.

Temptation whispered in her ear, fingers itching to explore the little masterwork before her, to feel its edges and curves and textures. But Marinette knew better than to touch – the sculpture's beauty was fleeting, and it would be downright criminal for her body heat to hasten its destruction.

With one last look of admiration, Marinette turned back toward the dance floor – and squeaked.

Green eyes half-hidden beneath heavy lashes gazed down at her.

"A-Adrien!"

A deep, rumbling sound emanating somewhere from his chest answered her, and his eyelids drooped even lower. A pleased smile curled the corner of his lips, his voice deep and gravelly. "Lady Mariposa."

It made her shiver, but for all the wrong reasons, the false name like icy water. Right. He was talking to the part she was playing. A Prince talking to a Lady. A Lady who had no business addressing him by his first name. At once, she dipped into a curtsy.

"Your Grace," she whispered. "Forgive my informality, I was startled."

Had he noticed her surveillance? Surely not. He'd been engrossed in his dance with the noblewoman as they'd carried on a heated conversation. So engrossed, in fact, that Marinette had sought more pleasant sights, only sporadically checking in on him.

Warmth brushed her skin as fingers curled under her chin and Marinette froze. Exerting only a hint of pressure, he coaxed her to raise her head until their gazes met once more.

"Whatever made you think I care about formality?"

Marinette knew precious little about the intricacies of how nobles comported themselves, but she was fairly certain that to touch her like this was an impropriety of the highest order. "It – I – the evidence has been rather – rather lacking so far, yes."

Gods, why did he still have the power to make her feel like this? He'd forgotten her. She should be mad, or indifferent, or anything but this. But no, her traitorous body hummed with excitement, eager to seek closeness now that she was certain that he was no imposter. Her gaze greedily followed the hard line of his jaw and the arc of his nose while her overactive imagination busied itself with painting stars in his eyes, like he was admiring her with the same intensity she was gawking at him.

Which she knew full well couldn't be what he was doing.

His thumb brushed along her jaw and moved to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. In-between remembering how to breathe, Marinette had to admonish her knees to refrain from this buckling nonsense they were attempting.

"Excellent. I'd hate to leave the wrong impression," he said softly.

He was doing this to her one purpose. He had to be. Scraping together what little poise she had, she straightened her spine and took a step back.

"And what kind of impression would you like to leave, Your Grace?"

"The kind where you don't call me 'Your Grace'." His arm fell back to his side.

"It's not my place to presume such familiarity, Your Grace."

"Adrien," he corrected, entirely oblivious to her subtle rebuke.

"Your Grace," she said stubbornly. If she was a stranger to him, then strangers they would be.

He tilted his head, then grinned. "Might I at least beg for a better title? 'Your Grace' makes me sound so appallingly stuffy."

Marinette bit her lip to keep from returning the grin. Stop it. Stop liking him, it will only bring you heartache. "Well, that depends entirely on the quality of your begging."

His eyes lit up – with mischief at first, and then–

A strangled sound escaped her.

She wasn't sure how he was doing it, all she knew was that his eyes had grown impossibly big and dark and vulnerable, and it made her want to coo and squish him to her chest and–

"Stop that," she hissed.

"Stop what?" His voice was one of utter innocence, but his eyes just kept doing the thing.

"Fine! You win! I won't call you 'Your Grace' anymore!" And just as a triumphant grin spread across his face, she added, "Your Highness."

When his lips pursed together in a pout, she couldn't help her laughter. He brightened at once, gaze softening. "It's good to see you again, Lady Mariposa."

"Thank you, Your Royal Excellency."

He clutched his chest as if wounded. "Ruthless."

"My humblest apologies." She pressed her lips together, but the temptation proved too great to resist. "…Your Most Exalted Majesty."

"Careful." Despite the warning tone, the corners of his eyes were crinkling with a smile. "Keep this up, and I'll have no choice but to retaliate."

Oh, Marinette did not like that gleam in his eye. "Retaliate how?"

He leaned forward, his face so close to hers she could have counted the golden stubble dusting his jaw. "There's no need for formality between us," he whispered huskily. "Ma souris."

Marinette's cheeks burned at the endearment. Fighting hard to choke back a high-pitched noise, she scrambled away to put distance between them. But then her heel got entangled in her long dress, her infernal clumsiness choosing this moment to rob her of the last of her dignity.

Adrien caught her.

She swallowed heavily, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his hand on the small of her back.

"So shall I keep going, sweet Mari?" His shoulder shook with laughter. "Or will you say my name properly now?"

"…you don't fight fair, Adrien."

"True." There was that deep rumbling again as his smile verged on smug. "I fight to win."

Volpina's lip curled back in distaste as she cut her way through the writhing mass of humanity. They scattered like insects fleeing the light at her approach. The remains of their withered instincts gave them just enough sense to fear standing in her way, though few of them were aware enough to notice the wide berth they were giving her.

She'd drawn the cloak of her glamor tightly around herself, not wasting her energy on attracting rather than repelling them. The crowd parting to make way suited her for now – and Volpina was in no mood to deal with human males seeking courtship, as they invariably did at feasts like these.

Annoyance pricked at her temper but she swatted it away. There was no point in being angry at the idiot cat – if she did, she might as well rage at the winter for being cold. It was in this pet's nature to listen to no one but the one who held his leash, and she would simply have to work around his limitations.

A whisper echoed and Volpina grew still. It was no louder than a brook's babble, should have drowned under the dim roar of the crowd and the music, and yet…

Shadows kept at bay by the flickering lantern light bulged and grew as Volpina breathed deeply, drawing on the magic of Underhill seeping through the ever-present cracks between the realms to give her True Sight. Her awareness of the mortal world faded, ordinary senses dimming, but the whisper grew louder until it was almost a physical presence, a ghost of a touch crawling on her skin, looking for entry.

Who would dare?

She whirled around, facing a glowing white butterfly in a sea of shadows, and snatched it. Delicate wings uselessly beat against the insides of her fist as she squeezed, tasting the magic for its source.

Scent caught, a glowing web of crisscrossed paths unfurled before her, erratic trails left behind by little spies fluttering this way and that. Volpina spotted more of them in the distance, faintly shimmering little dots dancing between oblivious humans, but they were not of interest for her. No, her sight locked onto the tethers binding them and she followed the nearest one, absently unfurling her claws to release the blackened scraps of her caught quarry.

She left the crowd behind, walking along the edges of the labyrinth, until faint voices up ahead drew her attention. Two minds, one sharp and brilliant and vast, the other churning with delicious anger and grief. Humans?

"–hope your answers match those of your cousin."

"Wait, Lord Lahiffe, it's not what you think–"

"Save your tale for the guards."

Volpina's eyes widened with excitement and she let her human form fall away, her nimble fox body closing the distance in only a few leaps. Neither of the two humans caught in an argument paid any mind to the rustle of the grass as she settled in to watch, too focused on each other.

The woman – red hair, tan skin, hadn't Volpina seen her just now sniffing around the prince? – took a deep, calming breath as Lord Lahiffe pulled at her arm. His brows knit together in confusion when she did not budge.

Stronger than him.

And the source of that stolen bit of fae magic.

Hunter.

"Listen," the woman said, her voice as soothing as if she was talking to a spooked animal. "You're right to be suspicious. But we are not the villains you're looking for."

"Then who is?" the Lord bit out. He was breathing heavily in agitation, his fortress of a mind in disarray. Resistant minds were the bane of a Changeling's existence, never staying subdued for long – if they could be subdued at all. But this one…

Lord Lahiffe's mind was weakened by drink.

Vulnerable.

Volpina's chops drew back from her fangs in the closest thing to a smile this form was capable of. The Fates were favoring her tonight, to drop such an opportunity into her lap. Two problems eliminated in one fell swoop.

Hunters so hated to hurt enthralled humans. Even in self-defense. It was what made them weak, and would soften this one up for easy pickings. Such a shame the Lord would die in the crossfire. The beast might huff and puff, but he could hardly fault her for using whatever meat shield was at hand to survive battle with a hunter.

Opening her mind to the crowd she'd left behind, she tugged at the strings she'd bound her newest thrall with. The king's valet would ensure the cat stayed away while she broke his toy.

Then Volpina reached for the spark of Lord Lahiffe's anger and fanned the flames.