"Slower than the castle breaks," Jarlath admits, leading us through a narrow corridor where servingware rattles on shelves with each step. "We need more Fae trained as stone weavers, but the other two Fae cities refuse our messengers."
I keep my hand on the wall as we move, feeling the subtle tremors beneath my palm. The beast paces restlessly inside me, but doesn't fight for control.
The mention of the Fae cities' refusal makes my jaw clench. Politics. Always fucking politics, even when the world is literally crumbling around us.
"They refuse mine as well," Hawke says, his expression darkening. "I am beginning to think they wish to see Camelot crumble and blame it on Melinda's presence."
"It does seem that way." Jarlath pushes open a heavy wooden door, revealing a smaller, more intimate chamber beyond.
“It’s only going to get worse,” I say softly.
Hawke and Jarlath both glance at me and nod, their faces grim with the truth none of us can escape. Finding our soul shards will eventually release the evil queen.
The family's private living quarters feel both ancient and lived-in, a space I've never entered before. Comfortable furniture upholstered in stark white fabric with gold tassels surrounds a massive hearth of carved stone. Intricate wooden toys carved in the shapes of Upir warriors are tucked into corners, evidence of the children who now call this place home. Tall vases hold striking white lilies with golden centers that fill the air with a heady perfume, competing with the rich scent of myrrh and clove incense burning in golden censers.
But even in these royal chambers, signs of the castle's distress are evident. A thin crack traces its way across one wall behind a portrait of what must be Jarlath's ancestors, their onyx skin and golden eyes captured in oils that seem to shimmer in the firelight. A tapestry depicting the eight realms hangs slightly askew, concealing what I suspect is another fissure. The castle's wounds penetrate even here, in the heart of its protectors' sanctuary.
Hawke pauses almost imperceptibly at the threshold, his eyes scanning the room with a strange expression I can't quite read. There's something in his gaze—recognition mixed with sadness.
I catch it immediately. The subtle tightening around his eyes, the barely perceptible flare of his nostrils. Over five centuries, and still the injustice of it must sting. Camelot, built by Fae hands, designed by Fae minds, and passed around like a disputed prize.
Seven years out of every eight, Hawke must watch others claim his people's greatest achievement. A punishment that never ends, for crimes committed by a queen no one really knows.
I've seen Hawke’s family surrender Camelot gracefully time and again, watching other kings place their banners on walls his people built. And now those very walls are crumbling.
Hawke's expression smooths over quickly, the diplomatic mask sliding back into place. But I've known him too long not to recognize the centuries of accumulated resentment beneath his composure. The wolf in me snarls at the unfairness of it all.
Boaz moves toward the fire, holding his hands toward the warmth. Wraith takes a seat at the far end of the room in a high-backed chair carved with ancient symbols I don't recognize, distancing himself from the Upir servants who move quietly around the edges, lighting golden oil lamps as evening approaches.
Sahsa dismisses the servants with a gentle gesture, the gold bands on her wrists catching the firelight. She turns to her children, who have been studying Hawke with undisguised curiosity. "To your chambers for now," she says softly, her voice musical even in command. "Your tutor is waiting."
The children bow formally to Hawke, the gesture both practiced and sincere, before slipping through a side door.
"We can speak freely here," Jarlath says, pouring wine into goblets without ceremony. "This room has been warded against eavesdropping since Arthur and Theon first sculpted it."
The barrier magicks wash over me as we enter, like plunging into cool water. I bristle momentarily at the sensation before settling. We’ve been here before. Many times.
Hawke accepts a goblet but doesn't drink. I decline the offered wine. I need ambrosia, not alcohol. I’ll find some later.
“How often are you getting the large damaging quakes?” I ask.
"Three significant ones this week alone," Jarlath answers, taking a seat across from us. "The last one knocked every book from the library shelves and collapsed part of the eastern passage."
Fuck.
"The Council is using this as further evidence to argue against Melinda's presence in Avalon," Hawke says, voice tight with controlled anger.
Sasha's elegant fingers wrap around her goblet. "Four realms stand with you—Upir, Drakonii, Sirens, and Asgard."
“My grandfather, Odin, stands with the Fae. He was pleased when the Council fractured,” I add.
"If only the others could see the same wisdom," Wraith growls from his shadowed corner. "The Elven realm grows bolder in their threats. Olympus is silent still and Hades is as vocal as the locked earth door in the Hall of Realms. Though that's not much different than normal for him."
“Melinda wants to visit Zeus and Hades.” Hawke scrubs over his face and shakes his head. “As much as I don’t want her to do it, I’m considering it. But it would mean me leaving Avalon and that just isn’t an option right now.”
“I agree,” Jarlath speaks again, putting an arm around Sahsa and tugging her to his side. “The other Fae are looking for a crack in your armor. You can't afford to be out of Vandimoor except for short stints like this. Traveling off-world would be very risky right now.”
The casual intimacy between them hits hard. Jarlath's arm around Sahsa, the way she leans into his touch, their bodies fitted together with the ease of long familiarity. My chest aches with a hollow pain. I find myself imagining Astrid pressed against my side, her scent mingling with mine, her warmth seeping into my skin. The phantom sensation is so vivid I almost reach out before catching myself. My wolf whines, a pitiful sound I barely manage to keep contained in my mind rather than my throat.
