104. Cyara

It started at the corner of her right eye. A single elegant swirl. Joined with another as it curved over her cheek, down underneath her bejeweled earlobe to caress the elegant curve of her neck.

Arran murmured something in Veyka's ear, drawing an easy smile from her lips as the artist moved farther down. The ribbon of black ink curled over her shoulder, then around her arm in two graceful swirls before it ended at her wrist, just above the beating pulse of life.

It should have looked wrong. The fierce black ink against her pale skin and moon-white hair. But it was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. The stark black made her skin and hair glow even brighter, turned her eyes luminous. Or maybe it was the blazing ring of blue fire around her pupil, the glow that never seemed to fade.

No one in the great hall knew. Not a single one of the terrestrials watching the Queen of the Elemental Fae being inked with a Talisman, a marker of her unique power, a sacred terrestrial tradition… not one of them knew that she was doomed.

That the cost of their safety—their survival—was her.

"I almost cannot stand to watch." Lyrena said, her voice achingly hollow. "Knowing that this is the beginning of the end." Her golden smile had been nowhere in sight since their return to Eilean Gayl.

The artist finished inking Veyka's Talisman. Arran took her hand, lifting it high above her and slowly spinning her so that all the spectators in the hall could get a good look. An appreciative murmur rolled through the crowd.

"She will survive."

"The stones—"

"Damn the stones. Damn the Ancestors," Cyara said softly. "We are the Knights of the Round Table. We will protect her. We will find a different ending."

Lyrena said nothing.

Maybe she did not believe it. Maybe she was afraid to hope. Cyara did not care. She had lost her sisters. Become a monster to protect those she cared for. She would not lose another friend.

Lady Elayne and Lord Pant stepped up beside them and the murmurs softened. Lady Elayne's voice sounded clear and bright over the assembly as she announced—

"Their Royal Majesties—High Queen Veyka Pendragon. High King Arran Earthborn."

A heartbeat of wondering.

And then, as one, the residents of Eilean Gayl bowed low. Exposing their necks.

The sacred submission.

The traditional, formal acceptance of the High Queen and King's reign.

Cyara watched Veyka's throat bob as she fought down emotion at the sight.

Arthur would have used fire. A dancing flame at his fingertips, enough to heat but not burn, a symbolic show of magical dominance over each subject. But Veyka's magic did not function that way.

As she watched, Arran and Veyka exchanged looks, both of their faces unreadable. They were speaking to each other without words, Cyara knew.

She inhaled, and Veyka disappeared. Exhaled, and she returned—with a mighty sword gripped in her hand.

Beside her, Lyrena's shoulders started to tremble with silent tears.

Cyara bowed her head with the rest of them. She did not glance up until she felt the cool metal of Excalibur's blade kiss the nape of her neck. And looked up into the eyes of a queen.