Why had Parys bothered with this book at all? It had nothing to do with the rifts, as far as she could tell, or Veyka’s void power. No mention of Avalon in the chapter headings.
She needed to go to the library.
She had ordered it sealed after Parys’ death, but she had not gone to inspect it herself. Not yet.
First, she had to see the goldstone palace fully secured.
She had walked the entire perimeter, finding two more unprotected exits. It was a miracle Baylaur had stood unbreached for seven thousand years, with all its secret passageways and weak wards.
Not weak, she corrected herself. Foolish.
The wards were keyed to power. Specifically, royal power. Only the royal family could alter them. As the terrestrial heir, Arran had been able to manipulate them upon arrival. And Igraine had been able to open and close them to accommodate the Shadows as she willed.
A snarl built in Gwen’s chest, a low rumble that grew and grew until she pushed to her feet. The book crashed to the goldstone tiles. She grabbed the back of the chair, desperately anchoring herself.
She’d almost shifted, without thought or intention.
Without control.
That had not happened in more than a hundred years.
Her lioness surged again, another snarl that sent her braids flying, her chin whipping to the side. She had no choice. She couldn’t contain it. She threw her head back and screamed.
Half fae, half beast. Pain and torment and rage.
The entire room quivered around her.
She knew that if she looked down at her hand, she’d see claws digging into the upholstery.
That forced the lioness back.
She couldn’t destroy the chairs. The twin wingbacks where she’d shared so many meals with Parys. Suddenly, they were more than chairs. They were infinitely precious.
She dragged in a breath. Then another. Breath by ragged breath, she fought back until she was in control. Until there was no weakness left.
Her eyes tracked around the room, the fatigue banished now as well.
Book. Table. Round Table.
The candlelight glinted off of the golden scrollwork of the Round Table. Mocking the engraving that had vanished when Parys did.
Gwen hated that table.
She ought to destroy it and the prophetic curse that Merlin had saddled them with. If Parys’ name was not etched upon it then it should not exist at all—
Footsteps.
Her eyes went to the doors with keen feline awareness.
It was too early for dinner, a meal she wouldn’t eat anyways. But the footsteps… not heavy, laden with trays of food.
Rushed. Running.
Gwen drew her sword.
No knock, no pleasantries.
A palace guard, sweat lining his face, fire sputtering at his fingertips. His pale, cream-colored uniformed was barely visible beneath the noxious black bile.
