The captain studied the documents, returning them with a begrudging nod.
"Cutting it close," he muttered. "Trials begin in three days."
"I'm riding fast."
He nodded. "North Star Road leads straight to Camelot."
The Hound growled—a sound of metal grinding.
The handler yanked its chain.
"Proceed then, Sir Lioran," the captain said. "Godspeed."
I nodded curtly, guiding Shade past the checkpoint. Her hooves struck the packed earth in a steady, measured rhythm that spoke of countless miles traveled and countless more yet to come. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence that had settled over the border crossing, each step echoing off the weathered stones that marked the ancient boundary between the wild northern reaches and Arthur's more civilized domain.
The guards watched us pass with expressions that mixed wariness and grudging respect—the kind of look reserved for those who emerged from the untamed frontier lands bearing the scars and hard-won wisdom of survival. I kept my posture straight, my gaze forward, playing the part of a northern knight who had little patience for southern formalities and even less interest in lingering where I wasn't welcome.
As we moved away from the guards, I felt the weight of their scrutiny gradually lift from my shoulders. Shade seemed to sense it too, her gait relaxing slightly as we put distance between ourselves and the Hounds.
I scanned the trees ahead more carefully now, searching the shadows between the ancient trunks for any sign of additional patrols. That was when I saw it, stark against the weathered bark of a particularly gnarled oak. A piece of parchment fluttered in the gentle breeze, nailed to the tree with an iron spike driven deep into the wood. The poster's edges were crisp and clean, suggesting it had been posted recently—perhaps even this morning.
I slowed Shade to a walk, then brought her to a complete stop beside the tree. Leaning forward in my saddle, I read the proclamation:
BY DECREE OF KING ARTHUR PENDRAGON
THE SHADOW TRIALS
For the Honor of Camelot and the Defense of the Realm.
Knights of exceptional skill and magical heritage are summoned.
To demonstrate their powers in service to the Crown.
Those chosen shall join the Knights of the Round Table.
Those who fail shall return to their towns, unscathed.
Let all magical sons of Logres answer the call.
I tore it down.
"Sons of Logres," I muttered.
'Unscathed.' As if this wasn’t a trap dressed as an invitation, as Corvin had said. Merlin believed The Shadow Trials to be genuine—that Arthur was seeking magical allies. But what if he was wrong? I supposed I would soon find out.
As for what I believed? I wasn't certain. On the one hand, what better way to flush out magical threats than to invite them willingly into the lion's den? Magic users revealing themselves, their powers laid bare in an arena where they could be cataloged. Neutralized.
Yet, on the other hand, perhaps it was true that Arthur genuinely sought magic users for his court—warriors with abilities that could counter Merlin's own power in the coming conflict.
Whatever Arthur's reasons, I didn't really care. My mission was clear: infiltrate and report to Merlin. And if I happened to be in a position where I could neutralize the threat—a position that dictated a swift blade to the king's throat—I would take advantage without regret. Yes, Merlin would be upset, but no, I didn't care. All that mattered was that my parents' deaths would not be in vain.
I rolled the parchment and tucked it into my satchel.
The game had begun.
-GUIN-
I pulled Shade to a halt, tethering her to a weathered post.
