Until now, the question never needed asking. Arthur’s will had always aligned with justice—and with mine. But now? The ground beneath that belief was shifting like sand beneath a rising tide.
I'd never questioned his commands. Every battle, every execution felt justified in the pursuit of peace. The blood on my hands—so much of it—had been spilled in the name of something noble.
But this was different.
This was no war. No rebellion. Just an innocent girl and a sword that no longer belonged to Arthur. And a dragon that was growing bigger than its cage.
For the first time I could remember, something stirred beneath the weight of duty—a conscience within me I thought long buried.
When I reached my bedchamber, I paced, moonlight stretching my shadow across the walls. What haunted me most wasn’t the moral question—but how quickly it had cracked my certainty regarding Arthur.
Had he always been this man, and I simply hadn’t seen it?
Or had I seen it and chosen to look away?
Or was this the dragon's will and had nothing to do with Arthur?
The questions followed me to bed, into dreams where a woman stood before Camelot’s throne, Excalibur raised high. The blade caught the light as Arthur and I knelt—not in surrender, but in recognition.
Not of power.
Of truth.
Of something long forgotten—and desperately needed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
-GUIN-
Isat astride Shade inside Thornhallow Forest, the forest that bordered Camelot. Beside me sat the other knights on their mounts, all of us watching the magnificent stag poised on a rocky outcrop before us.
It stood tall and proud, framed by ancient oaks and whispering pines as the late afternoon sunlight highlighted its tawny hide. My fingers tightened around the reins, the leather creaking as Shade shifted beneath me, mirroring the tension in the air.
This wasn’t a trial or test—just a hunt, meant to shake off unease before the next trial, which was rumored to occur soon. We’d all been on edge for days in anticipation of this upcoming trial: hands too quick to reach for swords. Laughter too sharp around the fires. Gawain had suggested this outing to channel our unrest into something enjoyable.
The gentle jingle of bridles and quiet snorts of restless horses filled the cathedral-like stillness of the forest as we sat transfixed, staring at the magnificent creature poised before us on its natural throne of weathered stone.
The stag didn't bolt. Instead, it remained perfectly still, watching us with those large, dark eyes—as if it understood something we did not. The stag’s coat gleamed like burnished copper. Muscles bunched under a velvet coat, while its antlers swept skyward—nature’s crown, more regal than anything forged by man.
For a moment, no one moved. Even the hard-bitten knights around me seemed struck by its dignity.
Then came the sharptwangof a bowstring.
The arrow sliced through the morning air, but Agravaine's aim proved as flawed as his character. Instead of finding the clean kill zone behind the shoulder, the steel point buried itself deep into the stag's flank—a deliberately cruel placement that spoke more to malice than poor marksmanship. I'd seen Agravaine shoot before; his accuracy was legendary among the knights when it served his purposes.
The magnificent creature's bellow shattered the forest's silence—a raw, soul-deep sound of betrayal and anguish that seemed to echo from the heart of the ancient woods. The beast staggered backward, its powerful legs trembling. The arrow shaft protruded from its tawny hide, dark crimson blood already flowing, first in thin rivulets, then in steadily increasing streams. Each labored breath sent fresh waves of scarlet rolling down its flank, staining the earth with liquid ruby.
“Poor shot, Agravaine,” Gawain said coldly, amber eyes narrowing. “Now the creature suffers.”
Agravaine shrugged. “It’ll tire faster. Makes the chase quicker.”
My stomach turned. Three years in Annwyn had taught me the old ways—Merlin’s ways. Every hunt a contract, every kill clean. The animal’s death honored, not turned into a spectacle. This was nothing more than cruelty dressed as sport.
For a heartbeat, the stag's gaze locked with mine—liquid brown eyes, wide with pain and confusion—before it stumbled downhill and disappeared into the brush.
“After it!” Agravaine barked, thundering past me. The rest charged after him, some intoxicated by the excitement of the chase, others uncertain about their position in this display.
I hesitated only a moment before breaking away from the main hunting party. Instead of following directly, I guided Shade through a narrow ravine I’d noticed earlier—a shortcut that might intercept the stag's path. The water magic in my blood sensed a stream ahead, and I had a feeling the stag was headed in the same direction.
