I expect you to follow the path that opens before you—wherever that path leads and whatever that path may be. The sword’s choice is only a signpost.
Only a signpost?
I stared into the basin, frustration twisting in my gut. Merlin’s calm unnerved me more than any reprimand could have. Not surprise, not awe—just quiet inevitability, as if he’d known this would happen all along. And for all I knew, perhaps he had known.
"Did you know this was going to happen?"
Of course not. I am unable to see the fates of men. Or in your case, women.
Irritated and beyond exhausted, I ended the spell and extinguished the candle. Darkness folded around me, courtesy of the drawn shutters across my window. But then, remembering how Peep liked to sit on the sill, I walked over and opened them, though there was no sign of my friend.
Feeling the need for sleep, I lay down, but my mind refused to abide, tangled in thoughts I couldn’t quiet.
I had come to Camelot with a purpose: infiltrate, gather intelligence, prepare for Merlin’s eventual assault.
But now?
Now I wasn’t sure what my purpose was.
What gnawed at me worse than anything, though, were these tangled, treacherous feelings I had toward Arthur. Every lesson I'd absorbed in Annwyn, the death of my parents, every whispered tale of his cruelty, every reminder of why Merlin had sent me here in the first place—all of it demanded that I hated him completely, utterly, without reservation. And part of me still did. A big part. That hatred burned steady and familiar, fed by years of exile and fear, by the knowledge of what his purges had done to people like me.
But it wasn't all of me anymore.
Some traitorous part had begun to see past the tyrant's crown to the complicated man beneath. Behind the sovereign's facade, I was beginning to see glimpses of the king he might have been—or perhaps still could be. And that was a dangerous possibility I had no business entertaining.
-LANCE-
When we returned from the hunt, I headed directly for the stable. Long wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, supporting a roof fashioned from sturdy oak shingles, untouched by the ravages of time. Chains of garlic and rosemary hung from the rafters, warding off evil spirits and festering disease—a sailor’s superstition brought inland and one that made me snicker, even if I appreciated seeing them there.
As I stepped inside, the scent of straw and horse sweat filled the air—a comforting aroma, familiar from years of battle. Rows of stalls lined the walls, each one spacious enough to house Arthur’s prized warhorses, creatures of impressive stature with glossy coats gleaming under the warm light of oil lamps. Of course, his favorite was Cabal, the horse he chose to ride most often.
Leather saddles lay meticulously arranged on racks, cleaned and polished, standing as proof of the care bestowed on these steeds. The stablehands moved silently, tending to the horses, their expressions focused and respectful—a stark contrast to the clamor of court life.
I led Nero to the far end and inhaled deeply. I loved the smell of hay and horse sweat—they were honest scents that grounded me after days of political maneuvering and watching men compete for Arthur's favor.
I worked the buckles on Nero's saddle, fingers moving through familiar motions while stable boys scurried past with water buckets and feed.
One paused, eyes hopeful. "Sir Lancelot, I can finish—"
"—no need." I waved him off, lifting the saddle from Nero's back. The weight settled comfortably across my forearm as I turned to face the disappointment in the boy's eyes. "I prefer to care for him myself," I further explained as I reached into the drawstring leather purse tied to my belt and tossed the boy acopper coin. He caught it with wide eyes and a wider smile as he looked up at me.
"Th-thank you truly, m-my lord!"
I gave him a chuckle. "Off you go then."
He bobbed his head and retreated, calling out to his fellow stable boys to tell them of his good luck. While it was true that any of the stable boys would have handled this duty gladly, grateful for the honor of tending a knight's mount, I'd cared for Nero since he was a colt. Some habits ran too deep to break, and the truth was that I preferred the silence of the stables to the chatter of the court.
I grabbed a brush and set to work, guiding long strokes across Nero's flanks that raised dust in the early morning light. The rhythm freed my mind to wander where it had circled all evening—the new knights, the strangers now sleeping under Camelot's roof.
Some I knew, of course, from when we had all formed the original Knights of the Round Table—Kay, Agravaine, and Galahad. Agravaine, with his hard voice and calculating eyes, had not changed in our time apart. He was still just as competent, ruthless, and utterly disagreeable as he always had been. I'd watched him maneuver through court politics like a viper through tall grass, always positioned to strike when an advantage presented itself.
Kay was no better. Arthur's foster brother wore his bitterness like armor, his tongue sharp enough to flay skin from bone. Also competent, unfortunately. His ability to spot weaknesses made him valuable, even if every word from his mouth tasted of vinegar.
Galahad presented a different problem—too devout, too pure. Conversations with him circled endlessly back to righteousness and divine purpose. Useful in battle, but insufferable at dinner.
As for the others?
Percival remained an enigma. Something ancient lurked behind those earnest eyes, something that didn't match his boyish features or awkward manners. I couldn't read him yet, which bothered me more than I cared to admit.
