The spell unraveled midair, the light flickering out like a dying star. Arthur's hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling into fists. The tension that had strung the moment so taut dissolved, but it left behind something heavier: grief. Or confusion. Or both.
I stood frozen in the trees, heart pounding. What I’d just seen was not mercy. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was restraint—but it cost him something to show it.
And Guinevere? She slowly exhaled, the only sign that she’d felt the weight of death hovering inches from her skin.
"You want her?" he growled, and I had no idea to whom he was speaking. "Fine. Have her."
Then he raised his hands once more, and this time something darker than fire poured from his palms—shadows that writhed and coiled like living serpents. The dragon's shadows, ancient and malevolent, seeped from some primordial darkness that dwelt within the king's soul.
I could feel the change in him even from where I stood, hidden among the trees. The man who had hesitated moments before was now being consumed by something far more savage and terrible. His breathing had grown labored and harsh, each exhalation emerging as great puffs of smoke that curled upward into the night sky like offerings to some forgotten god.
His eyes burned with the dragon's fury, red as fresh-spilled blood, twin flames that seemed to pierce through the dark night. His vision narrowed as he focused on her.
"Yes," he hissed. The sound was strange. Not his voice at all, but something much deeper, gruffer. I was convinced it was the dragon. "She is ours."
He reached down with movements that had grown fluid and inhuman, his fingers visibly elongating into razor-sharp claws that gleamed like polished obsidian in the pale light. As he moved, he seemed to notice the cloak around his shouldersand his tunic—noticed they were limiting his movement. In one movement, he ripped them from his body, the rich fabrics shredding beneath limbs that now possessed the strength to crush stone to powder. The sound of ripping cloth echoed through the clearing with an almost obscene finality.
His muscles surged and rippled beneath his skin, swelling and expanding as I watched in horror. The transformation was neither swift nor merciful—it was a slow, deliberate metamorphosis that seemed to savor each moment of change. His back broadened with an audible series of cracks and pops, shoulder blades shifting and expanding outward. Each vertebra clicked into place like ancient machinery, elongating him until his stature now towered far above his ordinary height—what had once been a tall man now stood nearly eight feet of terrifying majesty.
His braies, crafted from the finest leather and designed to withstand the rigors of combat, now strained desperately under the growing girth of his thighs. The material stretched and bulged obscenely as muscle mass doubled, then tripled beneath the failing fabric. Seams split in violent protest against the raw force reshaping the man I thought I knew. The sounds of tearing leather filled the air—sharp, staccato rips that punctuated each surge of growth. Cloth surrendered piece by piece, revealing glimpses of skin that were no longer entirely human, mottled with patches of what looked like scales that gleamed dully in the moonlight.
His arms thickened, biceps and forearms swelling until they resembled tree trunks more than human limbs.
A growl reverberated through the clearing—a deep, guttural sound that spoke of ancient power awakening from slumber.
And I? I stood rooted to the spot, breath catching in my throat. Arthur—my king, my brother—was changing into a beast, a monster I didn't recognize. I'd never seen the dragonovertake Arthur before. And, as far as I knew, Arthur had never experienced it either. Of course, I knew the dragon existed within him—I was there when he’d taken the Dragonmark—but to know the dragon existed within him was very different from seeing the beast asserting itself now.
The moonlight caught the shimmer of movement across his chest, the dragon tattoo unfurling in serpentine elegance, alive and restless, its scales gleaming in the night. Each coil of the creature writhed across his flesh as if testing the limits of its cage, eager to break free and wreak destruction. Smoke curled from his mouth in steaming tendrils, the dragon's hunger heaving in his chest, ready to burn all that stood before him.
In front of him, Guinevere shrieked—a sound filled with shock and horror. Her eyes widened as she stumbled back, her feet tangling in the mud. He looked at her and laughed, but the sound was all wrong—distorted and far too deep.
"Did you think you would escape us?"
"What are you?" she demanded, shaking her head as she stared up at him in disbelief mingled with terror.
"We. Are. Dragon." The words emerged from Arthur's lips in a thick puff of smoke. His voice had transformed completely—no longer the commanding tone of a king, but something ancient that seemed to emanate from the depths of his chest.
"And you are ours." His words carried a possessive hunger that made my skin crawl.
Then he lifted his arms once more, fingers spread wide as dark tendrils of shadow magic began to spiral around his hands. I could taste copper and ash on my tongue as his power gathered.
He unleashed the shadows at her, and in response, the clothing covering Guinevere—her tunic and braies—completely disappeared from view. Not fading gradually or falling away piece by piece, but vanishing in an instant as if they had neverexisted at all. Now, she was kneeling there completely naked before Arthur, exposed to the cool night air and his merciless gaze.
"Stand," he ordered, his voice cutting through the night air. The single word carried the weight of a thousand commands, infused with the same magic that had just stripped her bare.
She stood, her white hair falling around her shoulders and waist, the only covering affording her dignity. Even from my position, I could see the gooseflesh rising on her pale skin as the cool night breeze swept across the lakeside. Her nipples were hard, little pebbles, and she crossed her hands in front of her sex, attempting to preserve some small semblance of modesty.
The gesture was instinctive, protective—a natural response to such deliberate exposure. Yet even as she tried to shield herself from Arthur's burning gaze, there was something graceful about the movement, something that spoke of inner strength rather than shame. Her slender fingers trembled slightly against her pale skin, but her chin remained lifted, her spine straight.
The sight of her—vulnerable yet somehow still radiating defiance—sent an uncomfortable heat through me that I refused to acknowledge. My hands clenched into fists.
"Drop your hands."
The deliberate humiliation made rage burn in my throat. This was Arthur asserting dominance, using his own magical abilities to strip away not just her deception but her dignity.
It's what she deserves,I told myself. But I couldn't accept my own words.
Whatever came next, I knew I couldn't allow him to harm her. Yes, she was a spy, and yes, I would bury my feelings for her. Hopefully, they would meet a quick death. Regardless of who or what she was, though, I couldn't allow him to force himself on her, and I couldn't allow him to harm her.
