He laughed—a harsh, hollow sound that echoed off the stone. “Logic says I should kill her. A peasant with a claim to my throne? She could undo everything I’ve built.”
"Arthur…" I wasn't exactly surprised by this announcement, but I was disparaging of it all the same.
He held up a hand to stay me. When he spoke, his voice dropped, low and cold. “But my body disagrees.”
“I don’t—”
“—I have never desired a woman more, Lance.” Arthur looked up then, stricken, drawing a shaky breath. “She haunts me. I dream of her every night—those defiant eyes, always challenging me, even in sleep. I see her in the steam of my bath, the shadows of my chamber… even in the swirl of wine in my cup. She is everywhere, and yet, she is nowhere.”
His fingers traced the rim of his goblet, hand unsteady. The firelight caught the silver threading through his hair, the quiet toll of eight and thirty years made heavier by the crown.
"When I close my eyes, I see her hand on Excalibur's hilt—those delicate fingers wrapped around the grip. And then..." His breath caught, shoulders trembling with an emotion I couldn't name—fury or longing, perhaps both intertwined beyond separation. "I see those same fingers digging into my back, marking me, claiming me as surely as she claimed my sword."
The firelight danced across his face, revealing the stark hunger in every line. This wasn't the controlled desire of a king selecting a mistress—this was something desperate, consuming.
"It's madness," he whispered, his voice breaking on the word. "This craving, this...hungerthat gnaws at me every waking moment. I cannot eat without tasting her name onmy tongue—a name I don't even fucking know! I cannot sleep without feeling phantom touches that leave me aching and empty."
"Are you certain this is your hunger and not… the dragon's?"
He looked at me and nodded. "The dragon desires her just as much as I do, but our feelings… our thoughts… are separate. The dragon views her as its mate. Its treasure. He wants to hoard her."
"And what do you want?"
"To fuck her." He swallowed hard. "I want to fuck her repeatedly. Until I can't fucking move. And then I want to fuck her again." He shook his head. "I am obsessed, Lance."
"Have you not taken another woman to—"
Without warning, he hurled his goblet into the fire. Crystal exploded against stone in a shower of glittering fragments, wine hissing and sizzling as it met the flame, sending up clouds of aromatic steam that filled the chamber with the scent of expensive vintage turned to ash.
I fought every instinct to flinch, my hand drifting unconsciously toward my sword hilt before I forced it to stillness. These violent outbursts had become disturbingly common in recent weeks—explosive releases of the pressure building within him. The sound echoed through the vaulted chamber like thunder, sharp and final, before fading into the storm's endless roar.
"No other women can compare to her. Not only is she the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, but there is a fire that exists within her, Lance." He looked up at me then, and his eyes were bloodshot. "When she looked at me, it was with defiance." He breathed in deeply. "And it's that defiance I want to fuck out of her."
I cleared my throat. I'd never seen Arthur like this before—tormented, obsessed. He did not, by rule, get attached to any women. At least, he hadn't for as long as I'd known him.
"And the dragon..." Arthur's voice dropped to barely a whisper, but I heard the tremor of genuine fear threading through his words. "The dragon drives me harder than my own desires. It wants to own her. The beast stirs whenever I think of her, clawing at my ribs, demanding I find her, claim her, make her submit to us."
"The dragon," I repeated carefully, knowing this was a very sore subject for him.
He looked up at me then, eyes wild and haunted, pupils dilated in the flickering light. His nod was sharp, jerky. "The dragon grows restless, stronger by the day. I hear it constantly now, and its demands are always the same—find her. Claim her. Own her. Mate her."
I stayed silent, unnerved. This wasn’t lust. This was something deeper—something obsessive, unnatural. I had to wonder if it was the dragon at fault—if the dragon was coloring his own thoughts. Almost immediately, memories of Uther came to haunt me—the madness that had unseated the king. That fateful day when he'd murdered his own soldiers. Was it possible that Arthur's sanity was escaping him just like it had his father's? Was this the beginning of the end?
“I’ve never wanted anyone more.” He looked at me again. “But she must die… mustn’t she?”
My stomach turned. The Arthur I knew—my brother in arms—would never speak of killing an innocent woman in such cold terms. But I also understood the peril. If the sword had truly chosen her, and if word spread… Camelot would fracture. His reign, perhaps even the realm, could fall.
A memory surfaced—Arthur at fifteen, wide-eyed beneath the stars, still stunned that the sword had accepted him.“What if I’m not worthy? What if the sword chose wrong?”
The boy who once questioned the sword was now a man terrified it had changed its answer.
I swallowed hard. “The sword chose her, Arthur. By the same magic that once chose you.”
“It’s… impossible.” He turned sharply, eyes locked on the fire as if it might offer answers. “It’s Merlin’s doing. A trick. It has to be.”
There could be truth to that. I was not yet ready to believe that the sword had truly chosen another, let alone a servant girl. It seemed… very unlikely.
"What do I do, Lance?"
