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The fox arched, trying to snap its small but powerful jaws around the tongue. But the barbs stuck in his mouth, until the canine was yelping and whimpering.

Parys wrinkled his nose, ready to snap his eyes shut if the flower petals made one move to close. He did not intend to watch that repulsive flower devour the fox whole.

At the last second, the flower recoiled with a sharp jerk. The flora-gifted female across the room smiled widely, rolling her shoulders and affecting a mock bow to the cheering coterie of terrestrials watching from the sidelines. The fox limped off, clearing the makeshift sparing ring the center of the throne room before shifting back into his fae form.

Guinevere’s eyes followed the shifter through the crowd until he disappeared from the throne room, a healer at his side.

“Did you pair flora versus fauna for all of the terrestrial matches?” she asked.

Parys frowned. “No. There’s one more like this one. Then two shifters against each other and two flora-gifted for the final match.” His eyes slid to Guinevere. “Why?”

She didn’t shrug or look his way, eyes now back on the center of the ring where an elemental water-wielder prepared to face against her own sibling—who possessed ice magic.

“Is there rivalry, within the terrestrials?” The thought had occurred to Parys, of course. But it wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the texts, and nothing had come up in all his drinking with the terrestrials. Not even a drunken barb.

“An unspoken one,” Guinevere said.

They’d dined earlier, since the tables had to be moved away to make room for the competition ring. But she held a glass of wine. She’d refused aural. He had briefly wondered if it was too strong for her. Which would be the most poetic irony.

Parys lifted an eyebrow. “Let me guess… shifters think they are better than everyone else?”

Her golden eyes flashed. “There are certainly some who think so. But the most dangerous among us are not the shifters. Nor the flora-gifted who command vines. It’s the ones who control animals, or who coax poison from the plants at their disposal.”

Parys’ skin began to crawl with prickling unease.

“Not much use in this particular competition,” he choked out.

“No,” Guinevere agreed. “But very effective when it matters most.”

She was going to say more. Parys could practically feel the words scrambling to get out of her. But he never got a chance to hear what other horrors the terrestrials could wreak, because Elora appeared at Guinevere’s shoulder.

Parys had wondered why Veyka hadn’t invited the young but capable ice-wielder to join the Round Table. She’d more than demonstrated her loyalty, executing her own mother for her treason against Annwyn. But perhaps it was too fresh—Gawayn and Roksana’s betrayals, the deaths of Arthur, Charis, and Carly.

Maybe Veyka did secretly believe in the prophecy Merlin had made.

A table of destiny. Five shall be with you at Mabon. One is not yet known, but the bravest of the five shall be his father. When he comes, you will know that the time for the Grail is near. The last is the Siege Perilous. It is death to all but the one for which it is made—the best of them all—the one who shall come at the moment of direst need.

Elora didn’t quite seem to fit in. But then, Veyka had damned Merlin and all her nonsense to hell.

Merlin. Even as Elora whispered in Guinevere’s ear, Parys’ eyes tracked through the room to find the priestess. Not in the crowds of spectators, not near the aural fountain… watching from one of the arches. Her features were cast in light, the night-dark sky behind her nothing more than yawning blackness. She was smiling as she watched the bloodshed.

An elemental, through and through. A disloyal one—but as bloodthirsty as the rest.

Maybe more.

He’d brought up his concerns about Merlin and Igraine at one of his shared dinners with Guinevere. But lacking concrete details, she’d shrugged and said her focus was on the Shadows as the more immediate danger.

That would not stop him from investigating.

“Humans?”

Parys’ attention snapped back to the two women. They might have been sisters—dark brown skin, black hair arranged in tight braids—but it was the cool, warrior’s calculation on their faces that made them truly look alike.

Guinevere adjusted herself in her seat, making a pretense of reaching for the bottle of wine in front of Parys even though her glass was still full.

“A human delegation has arrived at the goldstone palace. They say they are from Eldermist, that they’ve come through the rift. At the Queen’s invitation.”

Parys’ hand tightened around his goblet of aural. But he forced his mouth to spread into a wide, roguish grin. As if Elora and Guinevere had just made him an indecent proposal, rather than dropped another political headache into his lap.