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I paused, thinking of how to rephrase the question. “The Ethereal Prophecy mentions a queen. Am I that queen as well?”

A slight tilt of her head in response. “No.”

Relief slid through me—that responsibility, at least, I’d managed to avoid. But there was more to ask.

Two questions still haunted me. In sleeping, in waking, in the liminal moments between. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to answer them. But I had to ask.

“Does my brother Arthur dwell in Avalon?”

Lyrena gasped behind me, the sound fraught and searing straight to my heart. But I didn’t let my gaze waver.

Even as the priestess shook her head. “No.”

One left. One to save my soul or to damn it.

“Is my void power the reason the succubus has returned?”

Pain spread through the center of my chest—Arran. He stood still at my side, but inside he was roaring. His beast was begging me—take back the question. Do not do this to yourself. Don’t let this take what we’ve only just found—

But I ignored it.

It took every ounce of my will. But I’d been tortured before. I knew how to withstand the pain.

Besides, the ache in my chest was nothing compared to what came next.

Nothing to the agony as her pale, perfect lips formed the word.

“Yes.”

I remained standing only because Arran was holding me up.

Everything else slipped away. My fingertips began to tingle. The void wasn’t coming for me. I was summoning it. Begging it to rip me into a million tiny pieces, so that I didn’t have to stand the agony of being in my own body, my own mind.

Voices…

Arran was speaking. Making demands. Cyara said something. Isolde’s high-pitched titter. Then the priestess, silencing them all.

“The priestess you seek is dead. She was brought to these shores at her own request, rather than live to see the return of the succubus.”

Brought to this shore, outside of the protection of Avalon, to die.

“A coward,” Arran spat.

The priestess didn’t react visibly. Only pinned Arran with her silvery-blue gaze. “The succubus has returned. None of us here knows the true cost of the Great War. Not even me. But we shall soon see for ourselves.”

She turned back to me. “I return to Avalon.”

Arran had more to say, but I gripped his hand. There was nothing more she could—or would—give us.

I had one last question as she drifted back toward the mists. “What is your name?”

Her eyes met mine. Inside of me, something slid into place.

“I am called Morgyn le Fae,” she said. Then her gaze lifted—over my shoulder. “Remember. Avalon is neutral.”

My senses prickled in warning.

I turned just in time—just in time to shove Arran out of the way and take the arrow straight to my chest.