I didn't know what to say, so I remained silent, simply reviewing everything he had just admitted.
His gaze locked on mine. “Do you think I’m delirious?”
“No,” I answered, raising my hands to steady him. “I believe you, Arthur. I do.”
He exhaled, voice low. “She pulled the sword from the stone like it was nothing—a child’s toy. Then she dropped it into the lake as if it had bitten her. That is why it hasn’t returned to the stone. Only the one who drew it can restore it.”
“And she was a maid, you said?”
He nodded. “By her clothing, a scullery maid.” He dragged a hand through his hair, worsening the mess. “I confronted her, but then…” He hesitated, suddenly uneasy.
“Then?” I pressed, bracing for the worst.
“The lake rose and—attacked me. Then a fog—thick as smoke—began to obscure everything. I couldn’t see my ownhand before it. It… the fog shielded her. As if the water itself were guarding her.”
A chill rippled through me—deeper than the storm beyond the windows. The air thickened, heavy with the weight of what he’d just admitted. If this was true—and I had no reason to doubt him—it wasn’t just a strange encounter. It was a reckoning. A servant girl pulling Excalibur meant the gods had turned their gaze away from Arthur. Truly, the very foundation of Arthur’s rule trembled. The balance of Logres, already fragile, now teetered precariously. I had thought it bad when the sword denied him years ago, but always in my mind, I assumed it would reconsider. Now, to find this truth…
“We have to find her,” I said. “If someone in Camelot carries that power—” I stopped. “Unless you already have?”
Arthur shook his head. “I’ve searched the entire castle. Questioned every servant. No one knows her. No one’s even seen her.” He clenched his jaw. “I don’t even have her fucking name." He paused. "It's as if she's a ghost—she's simply vanished.”
“She may have fled to her village,” I offered. “Afraid of what she’s done. Of what you might do in response.”
His expression darkened. “Is that what you would do were you in her position—flee?"
I paused, considering. “Perhaps. I cannot say for certain. But knowing I’d been chosen by the sword that crowns kings…” I watched his face closely. “That’s a dangerous truth to carry.”
His jaw tightened.
"And yet… if the sword truly chose her—”
“—it chosemefirst,” Arthur snapped. The words cracked through the chamber like thunder. His frustration surged beneath the surface, barely contained, and his eyes suddenly glowed orange-red as they did when the dragon surfaced. And I believed the dragon was surfacing more often. He was much more given to bouts of fury, and I had noticed the smoke onhis breath more than once. He drew a breath, steadying himself, then growled, “How can it now prefer a servant girl?”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. “For years I’ve ruled Logres. I was… meant to be king. Ordained.”
His eyes burned—part defiance, part desperation—as if saying the words aloud could make them true and silence the doubts clawing at him.
I moved to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The legends say the sword chooses based on worthiness... or need. Perhaps...” I hesitated. “Perhaps something within you has shifted.” Of course, I meant the dragon.
Arthur stiffened. “I am still king.”
“Of course,” I replied quickly. “I only meant—the sword’s magic has never been predictable. Even Merlin struggled to explain it.”
At the mention of his old mentor, something in Arthur’s expression softened. For a moment, I saw the boy he’d once been—curious, eager, still full of hope.
“Merlin,” he murmured. “He’d know what this means.”
"Do you think he’s behind it? That he sent this girl?”
Arthur’s fingers clenched around his goblet. “The thought had crossed my mind." He nodded. "And the more I consider it, the more true it rings." He paused, then looked at me. "Who else would dare? Who else could find someone capable of drawing the sword?” He downed the wine in one gulp. “Perhaps she never pulled the sword at all, but it was mere witchcraft. Regardless, it reeks of Merlin’s games.”
I considered it. “But why a girl? Why not take the sword himself if he could twist its magic?”
“To humiliate me,” Arthur snapped. “To shake my people’s faith. He always preferred chaos.”
He refilled his goblet with a trembling hand, and I felt a deep unease settle in my chest. I’d seen this look before—when Arthur first spoke of Merlin’s betrayal. That same haunted edge.
“What will you do if you find her?”
