Arthur’s jaw clenched. "It is nothing more than a trick. Just Merlin’s magic, channeled through his daughter."
"You know better—you watched her pull the sword yourself," Nimue argued, her words sharp as a blade.
"What I saw could have been nothing more than a fever dream. And that is exactly what I believe it was—a hallucination brought on by Merlin's magic." He took a step closer. "Or perhaps your own."
Nimue shook her head. "The sword cannot be tricked. It cannot be forced. It answers to no one but the worthy."
"Then let her prove it." Arthur pointed toward Excalibur with Caliburn, the motion sharp, final. "Let me witness her drawing it—here and now."
The air left my lungs. I froze.
To refuse would confirm every one of his suspicions—that I was nothing more than a mask, a deception. But to accept meant confronting his legacy, his right to rule, and doing so before Nimue—the lake’s guardian, the keeper of legend—would make it more than a personal challenge.
"Very well," Nimue said, her voice quiet with the weight of centuries. She raised one graceful hand and motioned me forward. "As Guinevere is the only person who can handle the sword, she will have to replace it."
Arthur turned to face me. "Go." His voice was soft, but the command was absolute.
I swallowed hard as I took a step forward, and then something strange happened—the lake began to part, allowing me a path to reach the stone. I felt a bead of sweat slide down my spine, my heart a violent drumbeat in my chest. Each step I took toward the platform echoed like a verdict across the clearing. Nimue stepped aside, her water robes whispering as she moved. Arthur’s gaze never left me—his blue eyes so focused they burned. I could feel their heat across the distance, could feel the weight of his judgment pressing against my skin, as though trying to peel me apart to see what truth lay beneath.
The air was charged and tense, the kind of stillness that comes just before lightning strikes. The sword waited—silent, ancient, thrumming with magic that pulsed in rhythm with the blood in my veins. It called to something deep within me, something older than either kingdom.
And it was time to answer.
The moment my hands closed around Excalibur’s hilt, warmth surged through me like sunlight breaking through deep clouds. The blade responded instantly to my touch, glowing with that same soft, inner light it had shown me the first night. I lifted the sword and carried it back to the stone, and immediately, the stone swallowed it, inch by inch. Then I stepped back and waited. I wasn't certain what for.
"Do it," Arthur said, his words heavy.
I didn't look at him but simply nodded. Then I reached forward, wrapped my hands around the grip of the sword, and pulled. I drew the sword from the stone in one smooth, effortless motion. The sword sang as it emerged—not in protest, but in welcome.
I turned to face Arthur.
The color drained from his face as the blade gleamed in my grip. His expression shifted in slow, devastating waves—first came shock, raw and unguarded, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Then came fury: his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles leapt beneath his skin, and his shoulders squared as his hands fisted.
“Then it’s true.” His voice was barely above a whisper. The words trembled with the strain of his own disbelief. His piercing gaze met mine, but gone was the certainty I’d always seen in his eyes—in its place, something wounded, something searching.
“The sword accepts you… as it once accepted me.”
Saying the words aloud seemed to cost him something—something that sounded a lot like a destiny shredded. A legacy cracked.
I held the sword a moment longer, feeling its ancient balance settle into my grip, its quiet magic pulsing through the metal like a heartbeat. Then, compelled by something deeper than duty or pride, I walked back through the parted lake,straight up to Arthur. I dropped to one knee and offered Excalibur to him, hilt first.
“I have no desire for your throne.” Each word I said was sharp with sincerity. “I didn’t come here to take what’s yours.”
“Then why did you come?” His anger wasn't gone, just tempered now by something more frayed—confusion, maybe even hurt.
I was silent for a breath as I looked up at him. Then I answered honestly: “At first… I was a spy for Merlin. But now… I am here to decide for myself who you really are and whether you are the tyrant I originally believed you to be.”
He didn't say anything. Instead, he just stared at the sword like it represented a life he so desperately wished he could return to. Then, with a long sigh, he took the sword from me—slowly, carefully—as though unsure whether it would allow him to hold it at all.
He studied the sword like it was a long-lost lover. His fingers traced the inscription etched into the blade—words I couldn't read from where I knelt, but whatever they said drew something raw from behind his carefully constructed walls.
Grief flickered first across his features, stark and unguarded. Then came longing—so intense it transformed his face into something almost vulnerable. His thumb brushed over the crossguard with reverence, as if touching sacred ground he'd been exiled from for far too long.
Regret followed, pulling his mouth into a tight line, his brow furrowing with the weight of choices made and paths abandoned. His jaw worked silently, wrestling with words he couldn't speak aloud.
Then, slowly, the storm within him seemed to settle into acceptance.
Not resignation—something deeper. An acknowledgment of what had been, what was, and what might never be again. Thetension in his shoulders eased. His breathing steadied. As I watched, he turned toward Nimue and the stone and walked into the lake, which did not part for him the way it had for me.
