Amusement glimmered behind Arawn’s golden eyes. And before Pryderi could react, Arawn drew his sword. The scabbard was made of scarred leather, and the blade was heavy and unadorned. It was not a decorative weapon but one that had tasted blood—and King Arawn swung it at Pryderi’s collarbone.
If he had been raised a prince, Pryderi would have frozen. Fear would have flooded his mouth, cascaded into his stomach, and held him hostage.
Pryderi was prince-born—but he was monster-raised.
It was not magic but instinct. The bone-deep memories flared to the surface.
And for the first time since walking into camp, he was unafraid.
He fell to one knee and rolled. In the same movement, he lunged toward Arawn. There was a dagger at the king’s belt—and quickerthan thought, Pryderi ripped the blade free. It was not iron but some gleaming metal he did not recognize.
The second time Arawn brought his sword down, Pryderi met blade with blade. Then he seized Arawn’s wrist and dragged the Otherking closer, in reach of the short dagger. He had the tip at Arawn’s ribs, ready to slide in if the king made a move.
But there was nothing. Arawn was utterly still, his breath even and unhurried. And he wassmiling. Not a polite smile, but the bared teeth of a wolf.
Before Pryderi could react, Arawn spun his sword around, slamming the pommel into Pryderi’s wrist. The dagger dropped from his suddenly numb hand.
Pryderi fell to his knees as he came back to himself. He had attacked a king.He had attacked a king.This was no mere scuffle with another noble lad; this was a diplomatic disaster. His fingers dug into the plush carpet as shame rolled over him like a wave.
“Majesty,” he gasped. “I apologize.”
This was why he should never have been brought to court, he thought miserably. In the court, he could never let down his guard. Because the moment he did… he becamethis. Pryderi licked his dry lips—and thought he tasted uncooked fish and falling rain—but it was merely an old remembrance. He yanked himself back to the present with a force of will. He did not want to return to those times in his waking hours; they haunted his dreams often enough.
Arawn’s eyes flicked over Pryderi. “Why would you apologize? I attacked first.”
Pryderi shook his head. “You are a king. One of my father’s dearest friends. I should never have raised a weapon against you.”
“I am your father’s friend and a king,” said Arawn with a gentle twitch of his brows. “But when I swung a blade at you, I became none of those things. I was a threat. You defended yourself. And you have nothing to be ashamed of. I wanted to take your measure, and I did.”
Anger flickered through Pryderi. “This was… this was a test?”
“I heard of how you entered the Hunt. I thought perhaps it was simply rumor,” said Arawn. He slipped his sword into its scabbard. He looked utterly at ease, untouched by the violence. “And I should be the one apologizing. I wished to see how you would react. Kings may talk all they like, but when their life is in danger, their true nature emerges. Some freeze; some cry out for help.”
The words made Pryderi’s stomach clench. “So that is my true nature?” he said quietly. “To see a challenge coming and answer in kind?”
Arawn gave an elegant shrug. His fine red cloak rippled, spilling across his shoulders like blood.
The Otherking said, “As I would. As would your father. Whether you like to admit it or not, you were raised to rule. Kings and monsters are grown from the same soil.”
CHAPTER 5
GWYDION NEVER ENTERED Caer Dathyl through the main gates.
The northern kingdom of Gwynedd had a wild beauty: a rugged coastline, roughly hewn mountains, forests dripping with moss and lichen, and waterfalls that cascaded down sheer drops. It was a kingdom of bardsong and enchantment, of whispers and legend. And Caer Dathyl was the beating heart of the kingdom.
The city was crafted of human ingenuity and diviner magic. There were markets brimming with everything from oysters to spun wool; bards entertained passersby for a coin or two; and guards in finely crafted armor watched the crowds with benevolent fondness.
But when Gwydion looked at the crowd, he saw the beggars in the shadows, the children with bare feet and ragged hems, and the way one guard’s purse was heavy with a recent bribe.
Those who visited the city would likely never notice. They wouldonly see the grandeur and the wealth. They saw a fortress and a throne that would never fall. They did not see the rot that crept through the foundations, the petty cruelties, the dangers, and the inequality of it all. Gwydion saw all of that—but he also saw the potential of the city. Caer Dathyl was far from perfect, but in the right hands it could have beenmore.
Gwydion slipped into the city unseen. He had long ago drawn up his own maps of the secret places that one might come and go without being noticed by the city guard. This time, he used a well-worn tree to lift him up and over the high walls.
He walked down the street in a rough-spun cloak, his gaze roaming over the shop fronts. One did not let their guard down in the outskirts of Caer Dathyl, where lives and loyalty were cheaply bought. He ducked into one of the familiar eating houses. The smell of hot griddle stones and cider had sunk into the walls. Candles burned merrily at small tables—which were truly just barrels with some wood nailed into them. A boisterous group of soldiers were eating a midday meal; a drunken old man with a southern accent was mumbling that he was a champion of the Wild Hunt and someone should buy him another drink; two lovers from opposing noble houses were tucked away in a corner, their hoods raised and hands clasped.
Gwydion headed for a table near the back. A young woman sat there. She had short black hair and clothing that would make no sound when she walked. Two empty tankards sat before her, and she was on her third. “You’re late,” she said.
Gwydion slid onto the stool beside her. “I was unavoidably detained, Eilwen.”
