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First, for my coronation as Queen of the Elemental Fae. I’d barely been able to go through the motions as they placed my mother’s crown up on my head. The memory still only came to me in fragments, as if it had been experienced by some other person entirely.
Then the Offering, where I’d been forced to give myself to Arran, a complete stranger, for the good of a kingdom I didn’t plan to be resident in for more than a few months.
Arran was a stranger no longer. Was I prepared to be joined with him, to seal myself for the rest of my immortal life?
I didn’t have a choice.
But I had chosen to stay.
I could have slipped away, during those days when Arran and I lingered in my apartments, healing and hiding. Even Arran could not have stopped me if I’d really wanted to go. But I stayed.
There was the choice, made.
So, I allowed Cyara to truss me up like a chicken, and walked through the halls of the goldstone palace to meet my destiny one final time.
For once, I’d given up my scabbards in favor of a sword. Not just any sword—Arthur’s sword. Excalibur.
I pressed my palm against the pommel, hoping for some bit of warmth like I’d felt in the Tower of Myda. Even a tiny bit of my brother’s comfort, sent from whatever unreachable plane he existed on now. But it was just a sword, cool as my own fingertips.
A mighty sword, no question.
But it felt too big at my side, cumbersome as I walked, the opposite of the flowing gown I wore. Yet I understood the significance. Excalibur only bent to its true master. It had disappeared after Arthur’s death. It’s appearance in that stone, at the top of the Tower of Myda, was a validation that I was meant to bear it. That it had been waiting for me.
No one outside of my knights knew what had happened in that tower room. But every citizen of Annwyn, terrestrial and elemental alike, would understand what it meant when I walked into that throne room with Excalibur on my hip.
My mother’s crown on my head. Arthur’s sword at my waist. Arran’s ring on my hand.
But when I stepped into the throne room, I was Veyka Pendragon.
87
ARRAN
Just like the Offering, we started on opposite sides of the throne room.
After today, we would always enter together. A unified pair, the High Queen and King of Annwyn.
Despite fighting together to defend the goldstone palace, our two kingdoms were still separate in that massive room. The number of terrestrials had grown with the arrival of the additional delegation, while the number of elemental courtiers had been thinned by the massacre. Even after we’d announced Roksana’s treachery, each side remained wary.
Nearly equal in numbers now, our court, but they stood on opposite sides of the room. One huddled mass of wool and earth tones, another of flowing white and pastel. Unifying them would probably take the next hundred years, at least. If it could be achieved at all.
But that was not the task for today. Today, I was to finally join with Veyka. The female I loved. The female I wanted, with every breath I took, every thrum of my blood in my veins.
She stepped into the throne room, framed by a grand archway and the Effren Valley behind her, and I forgot everything else.
Her moon-white hair was braided, as always, with glittering jewels. But as my vision cleared, I realized it was not strands of rubies, but tiny jeweled clips. A hundred tiny red roses shimmered in her hair. The Dowager’s gold crown sat atop her head, almost an afterthought compared to the beauty who wore it. Excalibur was at her side, its golden handle a sharp contrast with the gown she wore.
For a second, I thought she’d bowed to propriety. But then a phantom wind ruffled the dress and I realized she wasn’t wearing white. No, it was silver. A silver gown that changed in the breeze and light like the inside of an oyster shell. First purple and then rose, then gold and blue. Iridescent, ever-changing, absolutely spectacular. Just like Veyka.
She was every inch a queen, and I would enjoy worshiping her for the rest of my life.
My beast growled in approval. Even across the throne room, I knew she could hear it by the slight smile that lifted her mouth. The little bit of challenge in her raised eyebrow as we walked toward one another.
The priestess, having traded her blood red gown for a darker garnet, was frowning. Whatever she’d expected from the queen, it wasn’t this show of confidence and royalty. When Veyka and I joined hands without her permission, she seemed to remember herself.
Her hands shot towards the vaulted ceiling, a tower of water spinning up and up and up, drawing every eye—away from Veyka and I, toward her display. Cunning, this priestess. Bloodthirsty, if her choice of attire was any indication. After today, we could allow no more self-indulgent displays. But for now, I’d endure it.
Veyka’s hand was in mine, her cool skin warming with every passing second.
