The Sacrifice Trial
The stone floor was cold beneath my feet as I followed the other fourteen candidates into the royal chapel.
My white ceremonial robes whispered against the ancient flagstones—a sound that felt too loud in the hushed sanctuary. Unlike the grand cathedral where crowds gathered for public ceremonies, this was an intimate space, its dozen wooden pews dwarfed by the towering shadows that clung to every corner, swallowing the pale shafts of light that managed to pierce the gloom.
I kept my eyes forward, but the stained glass windows lining the walls tugged at my periphery. They didn’t depict saints but legends from Logres’ magical past—kings before Arthur’s time, the Lady of the Lake rising from the water to offer the sacred sword. In one panel, she stood with arms outstretched, her blue hair flowing around her like ripples on a pond.
It still felt strange that her blood flowed through me—that she was my mother. The knowledge sat like a stone in my chest,cold and immutable, refusing to settle into acceptance. It was hard to believe that Merlin's blood flowed through me, too, of course, but at least I'd known him for the last three years. He was flesh and bone, however ancient and powerful.
But something about the Lady of the Lake remained harder to accept, more elusive to grasp. She'd always belonged more to myth than memory, a figure of reverent bedtime stories told by the fire when winter winds howled through our small cottage in the hills. A presence invoked in blessings over harvest bread and feared in omens read in the morning mist. She was a goddess of sorts, woven so deeply into the rituals and folklore of my childhood that separating her from the air we breathed seemed impossible.
In Logres, before Arthur's reign cast its shadow over all things magical, she had been everywhere and nowhere—ever watching from the depths of every stream and pond, never seen but always felt. The village wise woman would sprinkle lake water on newborn babes and whisperhername. Fishermen left wildflowers floating on the water before casting their nets, hoping forherfavor. Young girls would peer into still pools on summer evenings, searching for glimpses of blue hair beneath the surface, half-hoping and half-terrified to see those eyes staring back. I remembered the way elders would cross themselves at the mention of her name, how mothers would murmur her blessing over newborns, and how farmers left offerings at lake edges during droughts.
To discover that this enchantress—the one shining in those colored glass panes—had once held me as an infant, had loved Merlin deeply enough to bear his child, and had passed her gifts to me… it was too much to hold all at once.
What was more, since learning the truth about the Lady of the Lake, I felt no pull to visit the waters where she dwelled. The thought of approaching the lake filled me with a cold resistancethat surprised me. Not once did I consider seeking her out, despite the countless questions that burned in my chest.
Did she know I was her daughter, or was she as blind as Merlin had suggested? The uncertainty gnawed at me. If she possessed the sight that legends claimed, surely she would have sensed our connection the moment I first manifested my powers. Yet her silence stretched across the years. Either she knew and chose not to claim me, or her omniscience was merely another tale spun by frightened mortals who needed to believe someone watched over them.
Both possibilities stung with equal force, leaving me suspended between anger and abandonment, unsure which truth would hurt less to discover.
Deep down, part of me doubted Merlin's explanation. How could someone so closely tied to the essence of Excalibur, to the magic root of Logres itself, remain ignorant of her own flesh and blood? Even now, Nimue's pleas echoed almost nightly in my dreams—fragments of a voice urging me to grasp the sword and fulfill a prophecy for which I wanted no part.
And there might have been a part of me that was rebelling against this so-called destiny because I was upset with her. While it was true that I had no interest in claiming Arthur's throne, that wasn't solely the reason for my refusal. Well, it might have been the main reason, but there still existed an edge of resentment within me.
At my mother's constant attempts to get me to take up Excalibur, I had grown silent as stone, refusing to acknowledge her pleas that drifted through my dreams like mist across still water. Each night brought fresh visions of her—that luminous skin shifting with inner light, hair flowing like captured ocean currents, those inhuman eyes. Her voice would echo with that strange underwater resonance, layered and haunting, urging me toward a sword I wanted no part of claiming.
As far as I was concerned, I was more than a convenient pawn to be moved across the board of my parents' ancient games. Whether Merlin sought to use me as his weapon against Arthur or the Lady of the Lake envisioned me as some prophesied savior meant to restore balance to a fractured realm, I refused to be reduced to their expectations. My magic was mine to wield or withhold; my choices were mine to make.
I would carve my own path through this world, even if it meant disappointing both the father who had trained me and the mother who had abandoned me to forge myself in fire and solitude.
My lineage pressed down on me now like the weight of the chapel itself—ancient stone and sacred expectation. Not to mention the fact that I stood among fourteen others who would kill me if they knew who and what I truly was.
The air was thick with incense and the unspoken dread of the sixth trial: The Sacrifice. The scent of beeswax mingled with something older and deeper, an earthy tang that seemed to rise from the stones themselves. I'd survived the previous trials through a careful dance—just enough skill, just enough restraint. But here, on sacred ground steeped in ancient power, my magic stirred beneath my skin like water straining beneath winter ice.
My fingers brushed the Moonshard Charm—a sliver of silvered crystal that hung against my throat on a thin chain and was concealed beneath my robes. It was part of the Obscura Merlin had given to me before I'd left for Camelot, along with the Whisperstone and Veilroot Draught that had shielded me through previous trials.
Each time I grasped the crystal, a cool shimmer would spread through my thoughts like frost across glass, cloaking my inner truth so only I could perceive the reality of what unfolded before me. To Arthur's eyes, to Mordred's scrutiny, to the other knights—I would continue to appear exactly as they expected:a humble northern knight struggling through trials designed to break lesser men.
But here, in this sacred space where magic pooled thick as incense smoke, I wondered if the charm's protection would hold. The chapel seemed designed to strip away all pretense, to expose truth as mercilessly as the Riddle of Blood had attempted. My pulse quickened. Whatever sacrifice this trial demanded, I could only pray that Merlin's magic proved stronger than Camelot's ancient stones.
Arthur waited at the altar beside Mordred, both men clad in ceremonial black that made them look like twin ravens perched against the pale stone backdrop. Yet where Mordred’s features were severe and academic—all sharp angles and calculated restraint—Arthur embodied masculine beauty—harsh, yes, but handsome all the same.
His face bore the weight of years in command and battle, yet retained a magnetism that drew the eye as surely as a lodestone draws iron. The lines around his mouth and eyes spoke of both laughter and loss, while the silver streaking his once-dark golden hair only deepened his regal presence.
Arthur’s allure was primal—undeniable—the kind of quiet command that could silence a hall or lead men into certain death with a glance. His was not the beauty of painted saints but of ancient stone monuments: enduring, imposing, impossible to ignore. I felt myself swallow hard as I looked at him.
The contrast between their dark robes and our pristine white ones felt deliberate and symbolic. Judges and the judged. Arbiters of worth. The chosen few prepared to determine who would continue—and who would fall—in this sacred trial.
Arthur’s face remained impassive, but his sharp blue eyes followed each candidate’s nervous shift, missing nothing. Beside him, Mordred’s mismatched gaze carried a different weight—less like a king's scrutiny and more like a scholar dissecting apuzzle. His stare felt as though it could strip away our façades and hold our truest selves up to the light.
“The Sacrifice Trial differs from all others,” Mordred said, his voice low yet effortlessly clear. The acoustics of the chapel carried every syllable—this space had been designed, I realized, not just for prayer but for confession. “Until now, we have asked what you cando—your strength, your courage, your magic. Today, you will show what you are willing tosurrenderfor the realm.”
He paused, letting the silence settle.
“You must relinquish a memory—something of meaning, something you treasure.”
A chill moved through me.
