The light flared once, brilliant and blinding, then sank into Merlin's skin. He gasped, his hand flying to his throat. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out. No words.
Blodeuwyn lowered her hands. "It is done."
The dragon inside me surged at the sound of its nature being named and denied. The mark on my chest burned, hot and sudden. Blodeuwyn’s sigils flared in answer, stifling the rising heat.
Merlin tried to speak again, forcing out a word—my name.
“Arthur,” he croaked, his voice rougher than before.
His mouth shaped another word.Dragon.I could see it in the movement of his lips, in the desperate flicker in his eyes.
Nothing came.
The oath clamped down, invisible and absolute. He choked on it, his eyes widening, then laughed once, bitter and breathless, when he realized.
“Well,” he said hoarsely. “It is certainly done."
Uther lay dead at our feet. The dragon coiled inside my chest, restless and resentful. Merlin’s voice was shackled by a promise that might one day kill us all if kept too poorly. Lance and Corvin began to stir from the witch's sleep with which Blodeuwyn had plagued them.
The Whispering Wilds stirred around us, trees leaning in, the wind finally finding its way into the clearing now that the worst was done.
I closed my eyes and drew a careful breath, feeling the dragon’s heat curl tighter in response.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
-ARTHUR-
The Hunt Trial
Dawn broke over Camelot in a golden haze that seemed to bless the proceedings of the Hunt Trial set to begin today.
The Inner Ward of Camelot had been transformed long before I stepped onto the stone terrace overlooking it. Normally, it served as a place of movement—squires ferrying armor, messengers cutting across the yard, guards drilling at dawn. Today, it had been remade into a stage.
Banners bearing the Pendragon sigil hung from the surrounding walls, their crimson cloth stirring faintly in the wind. The ward itself stretched wide and bright beneath the sun, the packed earth raked smooth for the ceremony. Along the northern edge, the wooden viewing stands rose in tiered rows, their canopies of dyed linen throwing deep pools of shade. The highest tier—closest to me—had been reserved for the highborn of Camelot. They filled the seats with jewels and murmured finery: duchesses with pearl-tipped fans, lords lounging withcalculated indifference, and the ever-curious minor nobles leaning forward for a better view.
I could hear them even from here: soft laughter, measured gossip, the brittle clatter of expectation. No one loved a spectacle more than my court.
Below them sat the lesser nobility—knights’ families, wealthy merchants, and visiting dignitaries. Their benches were closer to the ground, shaded but crowded, all of them eager to watch the opening of the Hunt Trial. They whispered predictions, argued over wagers, and speculated on which knight would falter first in the haunted wood.
Beyond the stands, the common folk gathered behind rope barriers that formed a wide crescent around the open ground. They pressed forward for a glimpse of the knights assembling near the gate. Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders; mothers craned for sight; old men leaned on walking sticks carved with old stories. Their excitement was louder, unrestrained, a rougher energy that breathed life into the ward.
A raised wooden dais had been built opposite the stands—simple, sturdy, bearing my house colors. A ceremonial chair sat atop it, nothing like the great throne of the Great Hall but unmistakably royal. That was my place for the beginning and end of the trial. To be seen. To be measured. To be obeyed.
The knights stood in formation below, waiting. Steel glinted in the sunlight—polished, prideful, hungry. Squires tightened clasps and checked bowstrings, their nervous movements betraying what the knights themselves would not.
Near the far edge of the ward, where stone and cobble gave way to grass, squires stood in a tight cluster with the knights' horses. They waited at the mouth of the southern gate—the one that opened directly onto the path leading to Thornhallow Forest. Beyond that lay the Whispering Wilds.
Each squire gripped the lead of their knight's mount, steadying the animals against the noise and press of the crowd. The horses stamped and snorted, their breath visible in the cool morning air. Some were chargers bred for war, thick-necked and restless. Others were hunters—lean, alert, their ears pricked forward at every sound.
The gate to Thornhallow Forest loomed open: a dark mouth waiting to swallow every man who crossed its threshold. Beyond Thornhallow was the haunted domain of the Whispering Wilds, where the hunt would take place. Too far to reach on foot in the time allowed, the horses were a necessity, not pageantry.
I rested my hands on the parapet, letting my gaze sweep the ward once more. Everything was where it should be: the nobles in their shaded seats, the commoners behind their lines, my knights in formation, my kingdom watching.
The political undercurrents of Camelot’s nobility came into focus and would continue to do so the closer we got to the final trial. Now, excluding this trial, only three remained.
Lord Pellinore stood tall beside his son, fussing over the young man’s cloak with open pride. The old warrior’s fingers—once deadly with a spear—now smoothed fabric and adjusted clasps. His bloodline had served the Pendragon throne for generations, and ambition gleamed in his eyes as he whispered last-minute advice to his heir.
“Pellinore’s staking everything on that boy,” I murmured to Lance. “He refused three marriage alliances just to focus on the Trials.”
