And we shall punish her,the dragon intoned, its voice a low rumble in the depths of my consciousness, ancient rage stirring like embers beginning to catch flame.
But after we claim her. After we mark her as ours. After we fill her with our seed.
The dragon still wanted her just as desperately as I did.
My hands began to shake. I clasped them behind my back before anyone could notice. The chamber still felt like it was spinning around me, but I locked my knees, stood straighter, and called upon the iron discipline hammered into me since childhood.
That was when Mordred and Lance returned. I was still in such shock that I could only turn to watch them, taking in Lance's armor, which was usually immaculate, now bearing dark stains that could only be blood. They had returned from the grimtask of resuscitating Sir Tor, though their expressions told me everything I needed to know about the outcome. Another knight lost to the trials. Another family that would receive word their son had died in service to the crown, though the truth was far more complex—and far more damning.
The metallic scent of blood clung to them both, mingling with the acrid tang of magical residue that always followed Mordred's more intensive spellwork. Both of them were, of course, completely unaware that in the briefest flicker of time, everything had changed.
Mordred's voice cut through the tumult in my head.
“Sir Lioran, you are the first to return,” he said, surprise unmistakable in his tone. But his astonishment had nothing to do with whatI'dseen.
“Unprecedented,” he continued. “Truly remarkable. I must admit, I am beyond impressed.”
Lioran—she—nodded stiffly, still winded.
“Yes,” came the familiar voice, modulated and steady, though I could see the exhaustion in her shoulders, the tremor in her hands that she tried to hide.
Lance stepped forward, concern on his face. “Are you well?”
She raised a hand, halting him with the gesture, her voice calm but frayed at the edges. “I am.”
I wanted to scream at Lance:She is a woman! She's not the knight you believe her to be! She's the woman from the lake—the woman who held Excalibur. The woman who has driven me mad every night and day since I first saw her!
But no, I couldn't do that. Not with as many witnesses as surrounded me—Mordred and two or three guards. And soon the rest of the knights would start returning.
You must control yourself, Arthur,I thought.Think and plan. Do not react.
I forced my breathing to steady, summoned every ounce of courtly control I possessed.
“Your Majesty,” Mordred said, turning toward me with open curiosity. “Surely even you find this surprising.”
I could barely manage to speak.
“Indeed,” I said at last, and my voice came out quiet, clipped. My gaze never left Lioran. Meanwhile, the questions billowed inside me like smoke caught in a furnace.
Who is she really? How did she come here? What does she want?
Did she know she could pull the sword—is that what brought her here? Is she a witch? Is she sent from Merlin? Is she a member of the rebellion?
She is ours,the dragon thundered from within me.And we shall have her.
The dragon wasn't concerned with the thoughts and concerns of a king. The beast didn't care about the betrayal, confusion, or awe that churned beneath the surface of my skin. It only wanted to possess her, to mate her, to keep her.
One by one, the other archways began to shimmer.
Agravaine emerged next, grim-faced and pale. His usual sharp arrogance had dulled; he looked hollowed out, worn thin by whatever nightmare the Trial had conjured. His hands trembled at his sides, though he tried to mask it.
Next came Galahad—serene as ever, not a single curl out of place, his armor gleaming. The shadows had apparently found nothing within him worth exploiting. Of course.
Percival stepped through a moment later, and though he was visibly shaken, there was steel in his spine that hadn’t been there before.
And then Gawain. He stumbled, white as bone, sweat beading across his brow. His legs threatened to buckle, but pride alone kept him standing.
Five returned.
