Because I had claimed her first.
-ARTHUR-
I descended the narrow spiral staircase into the Hall of Lineages, each step echoing in the cold air, the chill like an unwelcome memory.
The scent of ancient stone wrapped around me, mingling with a faint metallic tang that hinted at the power lingering in this sacred space. My heart raced—not from fear, but anticipation. A king’s pulse quickened by the weight of what would be learned today. The silver of my crown felt heavier with each step downward, as though even the air recognized what today might mean for Camelot’s future.
At the bottom of the steps, the chamber opened before me—vast and solemn. Walls carved with glowing genealogies stretched into shadow, shimmering crystals illuminating family trees that traced back to heroes long forgotten. I felt the weight of them—each lineage a story of sacrifice, power, and destiny. My own ancestors stared down at me, silent judges of whether I still deserved to bear the Pendragon name.
Would they approve of what I’d become?
The thought passed quickly.
A king has no time for doubt.
At the center stood the altar, silver channels spiraling outward like roots plunging deep into the earth—roots that would soon run crimson with the blood of those seeking to prove their worth. Blue flames flickered from ceremonial braziers, throwing their glow across my face.
I paused, surrounded by the silent, forgotten tombs of kings who had once basked in glory. Dust coated the stone—each grain a testament to stories once grand, now decomposing with the bodies they glorified. Their battles, their triumphs, faded into obscurity, a whisper lost to time’s cruelty.
Somewhere lay my father. Uther Pendragon, a king with shadows that reached beyond his grave. In general, I avoided this place. I had never once visited my father here, never allowing myself the warmth of memory nor the sting of regret. His was a legacy infected with the same menace that threatened my own reign—the dragon.
Whatever shred of honor Uther had intended, whatever golden dreams of kingship he’d envisioned... all were now rotting just like the flesh within these forgotten tombs.
This could be your same fate.
The words were like ice in my veins, and I immediately lashed out against them.
No. I will defeat this beast, this monster. I will not allow it to overcome me the way it did my father.
I could hear the distant sound of laughter echoing through my mind. The dragon's amusement reverberated off the walls of my mind like a death knell, each note dripping with malicious satisfaction. It knew my fears, fed on my doubts, and found endless entertainment in my struggle against its influence.
I pressed my palm against the dragon tattoo sprawling across my chest, feeling the ink burn beneath my ceremonial robes. The creature stirred at my touch, its presence coiling tighter around my consciousness like smoke seeking to suffocate flame. Each laugh was a reminder of my inevitable fate—that one day, I would join my father among these forgotten tombs.
I squared my shoulders beneath the mantle of kingship, steadying my thoughts. For now, I was alone here in this empty space—alone with my thoughts. I had disallowed the courtiers from attending this particular trial—there was no room for them in the Hall of Lineages, and what was more—this was meant to be a sacred space, only for the knights to prove their truth, their worth to Camelot.
Without this trial, I could never truly trust them, and trust was paramount.
I wasn't certain how much longer I stood among the dead alone, but soon Mordred appeared, leading the candidates, the tension growing heavier with each step they took into the chamber. They bowed as they passed me, and I offered only theslightest nod in return. Lance was the last to enter, and he took his place as my First Knight, just beside me.
As for the knights, some radiated confidence. Others bore thin veils of control stretched over their unease. But one drew my attention more than the rest, as always.
Lioran.
I wanted him to pass this trial—to prove himself my comrade, not my enemy. There was something achingly familiar in the way he held his shoulders straight when others questioned his presence, the subtle lift of his chin that spoke of pride carefully guarded against those who would strip it away. I recognized that particular brand of resilience, forged in the fires of constant scrutiny and doubt.
When I had been nothing more than a boy with calloused hands and far-off dreams, I, too, had learned to mask uncertainty behind steady gazes and measured words. I remembered the weight of skeptical stares, the way seasoned knights would look through me as if I were merely another pretender to greatness. Lioran carried that same burden now, and perhaps that recognition had stirred something protective within me—a kinship born of shared struggle against those who believed bloodline mattered more than character.
He had secrets; I knew that. And secrets, in Camelot, were eitherweaponsorthreats.
If he was what I hoped, he could become one of my Round Table knights. But if not… I needed to know. Today, I would know. Strangely, a part of me didn't want to—for if the news were negative, it would upset me.
Mordred stood at the altar, presiding with his usual unsettling authority. He moved like smoke—graceful, calculating, and always watching. His mismatched eyes slid across the assembly, seeing more than anyone realized. Occasionally, I felt his gaze graze my own—a silentacknowledgment. He, too, was here to uncover truths and to ensure that none escaped.
As the knights formed a ring around the altar, Mordred raised a hand, and all quieted.
"The Riddle of Blood reveals what flows within you," he began, his voice echoing along the stone walls. "Not merely your magical affinity, but its origin… and its truth. Some of you will discover ancestors whose gifts you carry unknowingly. Others will find your power thinner than you believed. But all will be seen—your family histories as well as the secrets you keep close."
He moved slowly around the circle, his footsteps eerily silent on the ancient stone.
