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Lyrena straightened, her merry smile nowhere in evidence. “We send out parties in every direction. We prioritize winged-shifters and wind-wielders. They will be able to cover ground the fastest, and get word back here quickly if they find any sign of Veyka.”

It was a sound plan.

I turned to Cyara, who sat at Lyrena’s side.

The handmaiden had recovered well from her attack outside the goldstone palace, her white wings fully feathered out again. But she still glanced around, still unsure of her place here at the Round Table. I didn’t have time for her personal misgivings. I knew my direct glare told her as much.

“There have been rumblings from the Split Sea, near the estate of,” she paused, the name sticking in her throat. But she muscled past it, even as her turquoise eyes sparkled with tears. “Gawayn’s brothers. They could have been involved in his plans to assassinate the Queen, or at least known of them. They might still be working to those ends.”

This was the thought that had crossed my mind as well.

Gwen was next. And I knew her well enough to recognize the signs. Her palms were flat on the table, still and composed. Her shoulders set in a straight line, her lips pursed—she was girding herself for battle.

“We cannot all go after her,” Gwen said. “We must leave a contingent to guard Baylaur and oversee the running of the kingdom.”

Rage ripped through me. The beast roared against the tethers inside of me, the ones that were barely holding him as it was. “You are her Goldstone Guard. You are sworn to protect your Queen,” I ground out.

On one side of her, Cyara was frowning. On the other, Parys stared at the table, face expressionless. Gwen ignored everyone but me, fixing her eyes in a steady stare.

“My Queen did not sacrifice her own life in the Tower of Myda to ferret out the traitor in this kingdom, to ensure its safety, just for me to abandon it.”

Gwen ought to know better. She ought to have realized she could not make me choose. How could she choose? What the hell was wrong with her? Where was the loyal, unflinching female I’d known for the last two hundred years?

“You have never broken a vow.” The disbelief rang in my voice.

But there was no indecision in hers. “A vow to Veyka is a vow to Annwyn.”

I didn’t know what Veyka would say to that. A month ago, I would have agreed with Gwen. But not now; not with my mate’s life at stake.

“You would leave her to whatever fate—”

“I would defend what she fought so hard for—what you have always believed in protecting. Have you suddenly forgotten your responsibilities now that you have a mate? You are the High King of Annwyn.”

Everyone in the room froze. The gentle breeze that had swirled through the chambers—either from the open balcony in the bedroom or from Parys’ latent energy—died instantly.

“Mates,” Lyrena breathed, awe coating the syllables.

Gwen was as cunning as Veyka, as clever as Pays. She’d dropped the word into the middle of the conversation, knowing it would blow up the debate.

I felt the prickling at the back of my neck, sensed my fingernails turning to claws. I was a hairsbreadth away from losing control, from leaping across that table and ripping out her throat—

“It’s a rift.”

Three sets of eyes swung around, away from me, to the curly-haired, clever courtier who was no longer staring at the table. If anyone could figure out the three words even more disorienting than the one Gwen had dropped, it was Parys.

Fucking Parys.

“What do you mean?” Cyara said, tilting her head to the side as she considered him. As if this was a real, reasonable idea and not utter nonsense.

Parys shifted in his seat, avoiding my gaze. The stare I knew had turned lethal.

“She went through a rift,” he said to Cyara.

“There is no rift in the middle of the throne room,” I snarled. This was a waste of my fucking time. I had was done with all of them. Done with Veyka’s cursed Round Table, done with all of it. I needed to find my mate, and I needed to find hernow.

I shoved out of my chair, ignoring the way the gold scrollwork letters of my name on the stone table seemed to burn into my palms.

Parys’ eyes went wide. “No—but yes. There is. Veyka is the rift. Sort of,” he said hurriedly, stumbling over the words.