2. Veyka

The perfectly round pebbles crunched under my boots with each step, grating over my already frayed nerves.

Already?

That implied that they'd been intact at some point in recent memory.

Well, that wasn't fucking true.

Frayed, damaged, broken. Words too mild to describe the state of my mind and heart.

I was shattered.

Entire pieces of myself were missing.

An entire half of my soul.

More, maybe.

Arran was more than half of me. Loving him, being his mate—it was me. My power. My heart. My sanity.

The latter was teetering dangerously close to oblivion.

I planted my feet on the beach, ignoring the melodic lapping of waves at the toes of my boots, and turned to face the ominous rolling mists.

"Morgyn! Get your skinny ass out here!"

Nothing happened.

I gave her exactly one minute, counting out each heartbeat.

The mists did not budge.

I closed my eyes, summoning the ember of power inside of me, ready to step through the void—

"I have not given consent for you to visit the Sacred Isle."

The human realm materialized around me. My magic groaned, protesting the leash as I pulled it back sharply. But it had only a fraction of my attention.

Everything else was focused on the wraith-like female hovering in the mists a few yards away. I hated the familiar arch of her neck. And the way she tilted her head to the side when she was contemplating. I hated that I'd seen both of those actions in the mirror more times than I could count. How was it possible that she could exist? How was it fair that I'd lost my brother only to discover a sister both foreign and eerily familiar?

I did not pray to the Ancestors or make an errant appeal for guidance.

The Ancestors had failed me in every imaginable way. They had been dead for seven thousand years, and I was done resurrecting them with foolish pleas.

They hadn't protected Arran.

Couldn't protect him, not from me.

I had failed to protect my mate once. Never again. And that meant I was done wasting time and hope by invoking useless beings.

"If you would let me see my mate, I would not attempt to visit your sacred little island uninvited." One heel dug into the gravel. Deeper, showing my anger.

Good. Let her understand what simmered in my veins.

Morgyn's full lips pressed together, thinning out until they almost disappeared. "The King lives."

"So you say."

"Your ability to access your power ought to be reassurance enough."

The rage boiled up inside of me, burning in my throat, demanding release.

I ignored it. My heart curled around the golden thread inside of me—taut, thin, but there. The tiniest whisper of Arran, inside of me, still.

I allowed myself half a heartbeat to savor that comforting reminder that my mate did indeed still live. Then I flashed an arrogant, vicious grin.

"What else do you know about my power, Morgyn?"

I'd tried to play her game. Before Gorlois attacked and upended my world. She'd been content to let me walk away with no knowledge of who she truly was.

Morgyn le Fae, the illegitimate daughter of the Dowager High Queen of Annwyn—my mother—and Gorlois, the male who had tortured me for twenty years. All for the Ethereal Prophecy. Because my mother and Gorlois believed that I was meant to fulfill that ancient prophecy and command the voids of darkness. For that prophecy, I'd been raped in desperate attempts to seed magic within me. For the power it would bring, Igraine and Gorlois had slaughtered Arthur and placed me upon the throne of Annwyn.

Arthur may have lied to me about Excalibur and the magical scabbards, the Sacred Trinity, but he had loved and protected me. Then, he'd been brutally murdered. Meanwhile, the Lady of the Lake, my half-sister, had watched as Gorlois attacked and took my mate hostage. As I made that fatal mistake.

She'd allowed it all to happen.

As useless as the Ancestors.

I stepped forward, letting the water wash over my leather boots. I didn't bother to reach for the blade at my hip or the curved rapiers strapped across my back. I'd strangle her with my bare hands.

Morgyn did not flinch. The Lady of the Lake only tilted her head to the side as she considered me.

"I do not wish you ill, young queen," she said.

"Veyka. My name is Veyka. I am your sister. Gorlois had our brother, Arthur, murdered. We should be allies, yet you keep secrets. The Void Prophecy, my mate—"

"The acolytes and priestesses are my brothers and sisters."

Arran's beast would have been proud of the snarl that ripped from my throat.

I was absolute shit at this. Strategy was Arran's strength, not mine. I knew I needed reason and calm. But I couldn't sort it out from the rage. Such fire burned inside of me, I half expected flames to shoot from my hands. I was angry for myself and the loss of my childhood, a cursed existence. My very birth had doomed my beloved brother. Gorlois and Igraine had damned us all. And Morgyn claimed none of it. She could just walk away.

"Then you are as selfish as our mother," I spat.

Her gaze did not flicker. No telltale tick in her cheek. The only movement was the strands of her golden-brown hair where they were lifted off her shoulders by the morning breeze.

"I have duties to attend to. I expect I shall see you tomorrow morning," she said with that eerie, unshakeable calm.

"Take me to my mate."

"Goodbye, Your Majesty."

"I demand that you take me to him!"

But I was screaming at nothing.

Morgyn disappeared into the mists as suddenly as she'd appeared. Exactly as she had done every morning for nearly two weeks.

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.