"They say the magician descends directly from the bard Menwy," Pryderi hums around a languid sip of his wine. "Belin knows how the greatest man in our history came to beget a vagrant of such reprehensible trade.

"The Princess of Llyr may be audacious," he continues in a whisper, "but you are proof enough that she lacks taste in men." The Son of Pwyll rises to stand by the hearth, and, Gwydion notes distractedly, the golden curls that cascade about his shoulders seem to glow a brilliant red beneath the firelight.

His fingers tremble around the stem of his glass.