"No one is powerful enough to manipulate ley lines."
"Then what of his end of the bargain? Has he spoken of the beast and broken his word? Is that why the beast stirs?"
At the thought that Merlin had violated his oath—the pledge of secrecy he'd sworn, that we'd all sworn when the dragonmark was placed upon me—a covenant sealed in sorcery and blood—I experienced a wave of pure rage. No one could find out the truth—that a beast lurked within me—a beast that was slowly draining my sanity in its attempt to take full control of me. If anyone knew the truth, not only would I be dethroned, but I would be put to death immediately—in an attempt to kill the dragon. Which, of course, would only release it.
The carved face in the ancient bark remained impassive, offering no comfort in its wooden silence. When Blodeuwynn finally spoke, her voice carried the maddening indifference of someone who had witnessed countless kings rise and fall like autumn leaves.
"Who am I to say?"
"You are the only person who can say!" My fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles turned white. "You brought the fucking thing to life in the first place—you melded it with my father's essence—you cursed our bloodline with this monstrous inheritance! If anyone possesses the knowledge to understand what's happening now, it's you!"
The witch's presence seemed to ripple through the air, and suddenly it felt as if she were standing right next to me. But when I looked, there was nothing and no one there.
"I am not the earth mother, little kingling." I could almost hear the belittling smile in her voice. "I cannot create life fromnothing, even if you believe I possess the power to do so. The dragon existed long before the earth bore me. And it shall endure past humanity's final hour."
"Then what the fuck do I do?"
"The land wrestles beneath your feet, Arthur. Ancient forces stir that have slept since before your grandfather's grandfather drew breath. I cannot still the earth's restless breathing or cease the surge of power that flows through the ley lines. I do not possess such power."
"That helps me not at all."
"This storm that approaches—this awakening—is yours alone to quell, if indeed it can be quelled at all. Your father could not control the dragon, and it appears the same must be said of the son."
The reminder of Uther brought forth memories I'd rather forget—a man who had been respected, feared, yet ultimately brought low by madness and his own ravenous hunger for dominance. Uther had stood here long before I did now, his hands pressed against this same bark, his voice echoing through these same ruins as he bargained away pieces of his soul. And just as I sought counsel from Blodeuwyn, so had he.
My father, desperate for supremacy, had lusted for power with a fury that consumed him from within. The crown had never been enough for Uther—he craved something deeper, something that would make him untouchable, immortal in his authority. And in his machinations, driven by paranoia and an insatiable thirst for control, he had made a deal with Blodeuwyn that would echo through the Pendragon generations.
He asked for power, strength beyond mortal limitations, the ability to command respect through fear rather than earning it through justice. So Blodeuwyn gave him the dragon—an ancient, primordial force that ultimately turned him mad, transforming the once-noble king into a tyrant who saw enemies in everyshadow and betrayal in every whispered word. The dragon's fire had burned away his humanity, leaving only ambition and then ash in its wake.
And now I bore that same dragon.
I never did know what Uther bargained with Blodeuwyn—what price she extracted from his desperate soul. That knowledge died with him seven years ago, taking its secrets to a grave that even now seemed too shallow to contain the consequences of his choices.
"If it was not you who loosened the dragon's reins," I continued, "then it must have been Merlin."
"Perhaps and perhaps not."
I swallowed hard, too angry to try to ferret out the truth in Blodeuwyn's words, if there was any truth to be found. Only one fact remained: “I can't fight Merlin with swords.”
"On that point, I would agree."
And perhaps if I could fight Merlin's magic with magic of my own, I could stop him from encouraging the rise of the dragon within me. The thought crystallized in my mind—sharp, clear, and dangerously fragile. If Merlin became my prisoner, chained in the depths of Camelot's dungeons, perhaps I could convince him to reinforce the containment spell on the dragon, to reinforce the dragonmark.
He'd done so once before—when I'd first taken the dragon into myself and Blodeuwyn had imprisoned it with the dragonmark. Merlin had woven a containment spell around the beast to keep its essence from overtaking my own. And we had all been blood-bound to never speak of the dragon, lest we awaken it. An oath Merlin must have broken.
Regardless, he was the only one who could remedy the situation. Yes, if Merlin were my prisoner, I could compel him to strengthen the barriers that held the beast at bay, to forge newchains of sorcery that would keep the dragon's influence buried deep within the recesses of my soul where it belonged.
The dragonmark tattooed across my chest and back pulsed with awareness at the thought, as if sensing my intentions. I could feel the dragon's ancient consciousness stirring, testing the boundaries of its prison with each beat of my heart. The creature wanted freedom, wanted to burn through my flesh and emerge in all its terrible glory to lay waste to everything I'd built.
I would not allow it.
This was the only option I had—fighting magic with magic. Every other path led to destruction—either Merlin's victory and the dissolution of everything I'd sacrificed to create, or the dragon's emergence and my transformation into the very monster that had consumed my father's sanity. That path would only end with death.
Yes, this was the only step forward.
Now, if I could just keep the dragon contained for as long as it took to defeat Merlin, to capture him and bend his will to mine, then perhaps there was still hope for Camelot. Perhaps there was still hope for the man I had once been. It had taken many years for the dragon to fully infiltrate Uther's mind—over ten, easily. Thus, I believed I still had some time, though the longer I waited, the more powerful the dragon became. And seven years were already lost to time.
“Fight magical fire with fire of your own, Arthur Pendragon," Blodeuwyn said through the mouth of the tree.
