I was alone.
Again.
I stomped back across the clearing, through the dancing tendrils of the weeping willows. I drew the dagger from my waist and slashed—again and again and again. Until the graceful vines were a tangled mess at my feet.
An apt metaphor for my state of mind.
I slid the dagger back into my jeweled scabbard, my other hand sliding downward by habit. But only one found purchase.
The other scabbard was still fastened to Arrans’ belt. Or maybe not. Maybe the priestesses had removed it.
I didn’t fucking know, because Morgyn had told me next to nothing.
Is he alive?Yes.
Is he healing? Awake? Asking for me?I will give you more information once there is something to tell, young queen.
It had been a mistake—all of it. Coming to Avalon, engaging with Gorlois, begging Morgyn to help Arran.
She’d kept him alive, because no one could die on Avalon. But that didn’t necessarily mean that he was healing. And I was not stupid enough to believe it meant that he was safe.
No one—not the Ancestors, nor the Lady of the Lake or a thousand humans-turned succubus—would keep me from my mate.
3
VEYKA
“I thought we agreed that Isolde is not allowed to cook,” I said, dropping down to the stump they’d designated as mine. A makeshift throne, Lyrena had joked.
At least Lyrena was alive to make the joke. After Percival had stabbed her, with the fae magic in her blood stifled by the proximity to Avalon, her ability to crack jokes was nothing short of a miracle.
Even when they weren’t funny.
“Unless you plan on joining the rotation, she gets her turn,” Cyara said from the other side of the roaring fire. I could not tell whose flames they were—Cyara or Lyrena. But given that Cyara had kept the fire going for over a week on her own while Lyrena healed, I suspected the latter.
My harpy of a handmaiden had my spare pair of leggings spread across her lap, stitching the seam that had split along the inner left thigh. Given the way her teeth dug into her lower lip as she stabbed the leather with her needle, I decided not to press her. I turned to Lyrena instead.
Just as I had every single time I looked at her over the past two weeks, I cataloged each detail of her body, checking for strain or weakness.
But Lyrena didn’t wobble or falter as she executed a series of training maneuvers with her sword. I’d refused to spar with her so far, but it looked like that argument was about to die a sure death. She swung the sword with smooth grace, perfect control. All while keeping that fire burning steadily.
She was healed, no question.
Which brought its own host of troubles.
I focused on the most pressing one—Isolde crouching on the other side of the fire, stirring a pot that dangled from a carefully placed tripod of sticks above the flame. I managed not to flinch as the earthy aroma accosted my nostrils.
“Have you just begun?” I asked hopefully.
One claw-tipped finger twitched in my direction. “It’s nearly ready.”
I failed to suppress my shiver and started digging into the pack resting at my feet. There were only a handful of travel cakes left, and they were past stale, but if they meant I could eat less of Isolde’s stew, I’d take them gladly.
I let myself get lost in the mundane. The normalcy of cooking, mending clothes, washing dishes—there were hundreds of little tasks that needed doing to maintain ourselves and our campsite. I’d hated them before. But now, they let me pretend that things were normal. That my entire world had not been ripped apart. Not to mention the state of my soul.
Lyrena sheathed her sword and dropped down onto the ground beside me, sitting on a folded travel blanket to avoid the damp of the dewy grass. We’d retreated just far enough for the magic of the cursed clearing to wear off, to where Isolde’s healing magic worked again, and Lyrena’s innate fae mendingability began. And here we’d stayed for two long weeks. Each day wretched without news of Arran.
“Why won’t the Lady of the Lake let you see him?” Lyrena mused, folding her hands.
