12. Cyara

She had hoped she would never have to see his face again. Percival St. Pierre was the sort of clever that made Cyara's stomach turn. Not like Parys, quick and genuine and ultimately, kind. Not even her own brand of intelligence, borne of careful observation and educated leaps of intuition.

Percival was conniving. He paid attention not so he might learn, but so he could subvert. She had noticed it early in their journey through the human realm, but had ultimately decided to keep her own counsel on the matter. Veyka did not need to know every thought in her head. Veyka did not want to know. And that was perfectly well. The more time she had to mull things over, the surer she would be when she finally spoke.

But Percival had been a mistake.

Cyara had recognized his true nature, but had deemed it secondary to the value he provided in guiding them to Avalon. That mistake had nearly cost the life of a fellow Knight of the Round Table and the High King of Annwyn.

Cyara considered herself a merciful female.

But she would not try to stop Veyka when she sank her blade into the half-witch's chest.

"The tracks from the clearing are old, but there hasn't been rain. I should be able to make something of them," Lyrena was saying, hands on her hips. "But we are going the wrong direction."

Veyka merely stepped around the golden female, as if she had not noticed the guarding formation that Cyara and Lyrena had agreed to. Cyara rolled her eyes, shot a glance to Lyrena, and resumed her spot guarding the queen's back. Lyrena had to jog to catch up, but was in place in a moment as well.

Lyrena was still figuring Veyka out, even after all of these months. Who could blame her? She had been lost in her own grief after Arthur's death, though she was careful to keep her bright, gold-studded smile in place for all the elemental courtiers to see. But Cyara had seen the cracks in her goldstone armor; the way her smiles did not quite reach her eyes, the brash overcompensating. As Veyka had emerged from her grief, so had Lyrena. Only then had they truly begun to see one another.

Cyara, however, had been watching her queen keenly for nearly two years. Ever since Arthur had appointed her and her sisters as handmaidens.

The memory of Charis and Carly stung. It whispered to the monster inside of her. But she could not think when the harpy was in control.

She was not a true shifter, like Gwen or Arran. Their beasts were never wholly gone, even when in their fae forms. And when they shifted, they retained their ability to think and reason.

Not Cyara.

When the harpy took over, she shed all remnants of who she was. The harpy's only objective was to shred and kill.

She would let Veyka do the killing today. The queen was determined, her body coiled with unspent, lethal energy. Cyara noted everything as she walked two steps behind her.

The thick cloak was thrown back over Veyka's shoulders despite the frigid air and cutting wind off of the lake. It would give her easier access to the daggers fastened to her belt—one in the jeweled scabbard, the other in an ordinary one that Lyrena had fashioned for her during their weeks spent in stasis.

Excalibur was nowhere in sight.

The curved rapiers strapped across her back would be harder to access with the long layers of the cloak. Which meant that Veyka did not plan on accessing them at all.

Percival's death would be at the end of her daggers. And Cyara doubted that the queen would throw them.

No, Veyka would want to feel the traitor's lifeblood on her hands as it drained out of him.

Cyara considered herself a merciful female. So, perhaps there was not as clear of a demarcation between the fae and harpy. Because she knew she would savor Percival's death almost as much as the queen.