Then Arthur’s voice rose again—clear and cold as a winter sky. After he attempted to return Excalibur to the stone and the sword refused, he dropped the sword into the lake, just beside the stone. Then he ordered Nimue to return to her lake. Histone was edged not just with command but with bitterness—a wounded pride sharp enough to draw blood. I’d seen the way his face twisted with effort when he had attempted to return the sword to the stone, then with something far worse: humiliation.
Nimue said something I could barely make out—something along the lines of Arthur not being able to harm her daughter—that Excalibur had chosen her. But Arthur didn't respond, other than to tell her once more to return to the lake.
Nimue, unable to use her magic against Arthur, even to protect her daughter, turned, backing slowly into the lake. The water rose around her without resistance. She never took her eyes off Guinevere, not even as the mist reclaimed her, as her form shimmered at the edges and faded into the silver-dark depths. When the last ripple faded, it was as though Nimue had never been there at all.
And in her absence, the silence was deafening.
Now Arthur stood alone with Guinevere on the shore, the tension between them so thick it was almost a physical force. The king's shoulders were stiff beneath his royal cloak, his posture rigid with fury or disbelief—or both. His hand lingered at his hip where Excalibur should have rested, fingers twitching slightly, as if still reaching for a power that no longer belonged to him.
Across from him, Guinevere remained kneeling, her white hair a bright banner in the moonlight. She looked like a penitent goddess—both dangerous and diminished—folded in on herself and yet unmistakably powerful.
"I do not desire your throne," she said to him as she held his gaze.
Arthur's eyes narrowed, his voice rising to a roar that echoed across the water. "SILENCE YOUR LIES!"
And then he moved.
Arthur raised his hands, fingers spreading wide, and I felt the sudden shift in the air.
Magic.
Not Merlin’s refined, layered spellwork. Not the wild, ancient currents that poured from Nimue or Guinevere. This was Arthur’s magic—blunt, primal, and rarely wielded, now that it was tainted with the dragon's fire. It struck like a battle cry, raw and commanding, vibrating through the ground beneath my feet.
The space around Guinevere shimmered, crackling with blue fire that pulsed outward in waves. Sparks flared at the edges of her silhouette, throwing long shadows across the lakeshore. Arthur’s fingers tensed, his arm trembling with the force of the fire spell he was summoning. It was a display of power I’d only seen him unleash in the direst of circumstances—when his control faltered and the dragon bled through.
He was going to incinerate her.
At the thought, a surge of protective instinct overcame my caution, and I began to step forward, away from my hiding place. My boots found silent purchase on the damp earth as I moved closer to the moonlit clearing, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to intervene.
I could understand and support it if he chose to arrest her, to drag her back to Camelot's dungeons for questioning and trial. That would be justice—harsh but fair given the circumstances of her deception and infiltration.
But this? This gathering storm of dragon fire and barely contained rage that promised to reduce her to ash and memory in the space of a heartbeat? This was not justice; this was execution without trial, destruction born of wounded pride and royal fury. And I would not stand witness to such cold-blooded murder, not even if it meant revealing my own presence and facing Arthur's wrath.
No. Whatever else Guinevere might be—spy, deceiver, enemy of the crown—she deserved better than to die kneeling in the grass like a sacrifice to his wounded ego.
But Guinevere didn’t move.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t raise a hand to protect herself against the heat of the flames, didn’t try to flee. She simply remained where she was, kneeling in the grass, in the center of the circle of fire, back straight, face lifted toward him.
Her eyes met his—not pleading, not defiant. Just... open. Unarmed.
It was that, I think, that made him hesitate.
My muscles coiled tight, ready to spring forward and throw myself between them if necessary. Arthur's fury crackled through the air like lightning before a storm, and every instinct screamed that I had mere seconds to act.
But then it hit me—that familiar shift in perception, the battle precognition that had kept me alive through countless fights. The world seemed to slow, edges sharpening as I glimpsed the next few heartbeats unfold before they happened.
Arthur's hands would drop. The flames would sputter and die. He would step back, chest heaving, the dragon's fire retreating behind his iron control.
I saw it all play out in my mind's eye before it happened in reality.
And just as the vision promised, Arthur's fingers slowly uncurled. The blue fire flickered once, twice, then extinguished like a candle snuffed between wet fingers. His arms fell to his sides, heavy with the weight of restraint.
He wouldn't kill her. Not here, not now. Not yet.
Relief flooded through me, though I didn't dare move from my position. I remained frozen in the shadows, watching, waiting.
I didn't have to intervene yet.
