It was the identical curse that had claimed Uther in his final years. We had all watched helplessly as the dragon that had granted him immense power slowly devoured his sanity from within. Uther had died raving in his chambers, clawing at his own skull as if trying to dig the beast from his mind. Of course, there were only a select few of us who had known the truth. The official story spoke of a strange and rapidly advancing illness that was claiming him, but those of us who had witnessed his decline knew the truth—the dragon had consumed him piece by piece until nothing remained but scales and flame wrapped in royal flesh.
And now Arthur walked the same cursed path, each day bringing him closer to that inevitable end. I didn't know if I had the strength to witness it again—but this time in my closest friend and my king.
I sighed my own frustration and turned my thoughts back to Arthur's assertion that a serving girl had pulled the sword from the stone. I didn't know what to make of it. Arthur's desperation had been real enough, the frustration rolling off him in waves as he'd recounted the tale. But a mysterious girl appearing at the sacred lake, claiming the sword? It sounded like something from a bard's song, not reality.
At least we'd have answers soon enough. Arthur had announced the festival in honor of Logres's maidens, a transparent excuse to gather every eligible woman in thekingdom under one roof. Somewhere among them, he'd find his lake phantom.
Or he wouldn't, and we'd learn he'd been hallucinating.
I didn't know which was worse.
I finished with Nero, gave him a final pat, and hung the brush on its hook. My muscles ached pleasantly from riding, and my mind still churned with unanswered questions.
But Elenora would be waiting for me in the Great Hall, where I would order her to my chamber and allow her eager hands to cover every inch of me. Eager hands that demanded nothing beyond the moment. I could lose myself in her, forget about strange knights, dragons, and phantom girls, and the weight of loyalty that pressed constantly against my chest.
I left the stables, already anticipating the distraction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
-GUIN-
The Duel Trial
The Grand Lists stretched across the eastern field beyond Camelot’s outer walls—a vast oval of packed earth surrounded by towering wooden palisades, their edges carved with old runes and the banners of the Pendragon line.
Servants and squires hurried along the inner ring, while the knights in polished armor stood like steel statues, their mailed fists resting on sword hilts as they watched from the edges. Trumpeters in crimson livery waited on the raised platform to the west, ready to sound the beginning of the next trial, The Duel Trial.
Above it all, the royal stands loomed like a carved wooden fortress, tier on tier of ornately crafted seating built for the court of Camelot. On the highest dais—the King’s Pavilion—sat at the center, draped in red and gold silks and crowned with the fire-winged sigil of the Pendragon. A high-backed chair stood there, carved from dark oak and gilded along the arms with curlingdragon motifs. And on that chair sat Arthur, framed by the flickering shadows of the canopy overhead.
Arthur wore no crown—he rarely did outside of ceremony—but the weight of his authority was a presence that pressed against the air all the same. His cloak spilled around him in velvet the color of the ocean, while his gaze fixed on the arena floor, as sharp and cold as a drawn blade.
Around him sat the most powerful of Camelot’s courtiers. Clustered closest to Arthur, leaning forward with fans, jeweled pins, and hungry curiosity, the high nobility whispered fiercely behind gloved hands, wagering reputation and coin on the outcome of this trial. Further outward, perched on long wooden benches and craning to see the challengers, were the lesser lords and ladies. But they were just as given to courtly gossip as anyone else.
Along the lower steps sat the scribes and heralds, quills poised and ready to record the trial for the royal archives. Beyond the stands, the common folk had gathered behind wooden barriers, their cheers echoing through the arena like distant thunder. Children perched on their parents’ shoulders; traders and travelers pressed in, eager for a glimpse of the spectacle.
I was surprised to see them here, these weathered farmers and tradesmen pressed against the wooden barriers, their faces flushed with excitement and anticipation. The first two trials had been closed affairs—witnessed only by the nobility and Arthur's inner circle. But this... this was different. This was theater.
Had Arthur deliberately thrown open the gates to the common folk? I studied the crowd more carefully, noting how the merchants clutched their children close while simultaneously pushing forward for a better view, how the blacksmiths and bakers who served the castle daily now stood as spectators to their sovereign's deadly games.
Perhaps this was Arthur's calculated attempt at building bridges with his people—giving them bread and circuses, the ancient formula for keeping a restless population content. I could almost see the political machinery at work: open the gates, let them see their king's magnificence, give them something to talk about in their taverns and market squares for months to come. Entertainment had always been a powerful tool for rulers who understood that a distracted populace was a compliant one.
But even as I considered this possibility, I couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur's motives ran deeper than simple appeasement. There was something deliberately provocative about this display, something that spoke to the harder edges of his character. This wasn't just entertainment—it was a demonstration. It was about control: letting them witness his power, his control over the magic he had banned them from practicing. Show them that he alone could command it.
Either way, the air was thick with tension, dust, and sunlight.
Trumpets blared.
The duel was about to begin.
And every soul in Camelot—king, courtier, knight, and peasant alike—leaned forward to watch destiny unfold on the killing ground.
I felt like I was in slow motion as I moved to the sand-covered arena floor, following Galahad as he followed Kay. Percival was directly behind me. The sand shifted underfoot—raked smooth for the trial.
At the arena’s center stood Mordred, resplendent in silver-embroidered robes, runes glittering in the light. He scanned the assembled knights before him with cold detachment as we formed a line.
I glanced up to see Arthur sitting high above the others on a raised throne, Lancelot and his advisors flanking him likecarved figures of war and wisdom. Arthur’s expression revealed nothing. Regal. Composed. A stone face carved to wear the crown. And yet, seeing him still stirred something in me—less heat than before, but that fire wasn't gone. I’d done the work of talking myself down—of refusing to remember the way his touch at the lake had made my heart pound and how it had created a yearning deep inside me. Instead, I focused on the fact that he was, first and foremost, my enemy.
"The Duel Trial begins!" Mordred's voice boomed across the arena, magically amplified to reach every person. The sound reverberated, silencing the murmur of hundreds of spectators in an instant.
