Arthur recoiled like a wounded animal when the brutal truth crashed over him—another man had gotten to her first. Another man had claimed his obsession, what he had believed was rightfully his to take. The king's face contorted with a mixture of rage and devastation—both feelings I understood well, for I recoiled along with him, my body responding to his shock with an echo of my own frustrated desire.
I should have been able to fuck her first!
The irony wasn't lost on me—here we were, Arthur and I, united in our mutual disappointment over a woman's lost virtue. Two men who had spent decades at odds, suddenly bound by the same bitter realization that we had both been denied the prize we coveted most.
My fists clenched involuntarily as I remembered how that bitch, Elenora, had destroyed the opportunity I had right in front of me—to spill the white-haired witch's blood before Arthur could.
No matter; I would avenge myself against them both. I had yet to savor Elenora's cunt. But I would have her. Just as I would have Guinevere. Perhaps the two of them together, one beside the other—two wet, tight quims for the taking.
You will have your chance,I assured myself, forcing my breathing to slow even as my jaw ached from clenching it. The disappointment burned like hot coals in my chest, stoking my determination. Even if I was bitter that I would not be Guinevere's first, the prospect of fucking her still held much appeal. To take a woman's innocence was one of the greatest plunders imaginable—but to claim what Arthur still so obviously desired? What he himself had not been able to experience, owing to his own pride? That would be a very sweet victory indeed.
My legs trembled as I stepped into the clearing—a simmering rage mixed with bitter desire coursed through me like poison. The earth where they had lain together still held theimpression of their bodies, the grass flattened. Each blade bent and crushed in testament to their passion, creating a map of their transgression that I could read clearly.
As for who had taken her maidenhood from her? I could only assume it was Lancelot. The irony was quite amusing, actually: while Arthur sat in his throne room, brooding over maps and dispatches, his greatest champion had claimed the prize that should have been the king's by right. Lancelot had taken what Arthur had been too foolish to claim for himself.
The knowledge settled in my mind like a blade finding its sheath. This was information that could be wielded with devastating consequences. Arthur's paranoia about betrayal, his growing suspicion of those closest to him—this revelation would shatter whatever remained of his trust in Lancelot. And Lancelot himself, for all his legendary prowess in battle, would find himself vulnerable.
Yes, it was a profound shame that I had squandered the precious currency of knowing that Sir Lioran was actually a woman—and not just any woman, but the very one Arthur had been secretly coveting with a need that bordered on madness. But this new discovery—this evidence of Lancelot's betrayal, this proof that Arthur's most loyal knight had claimed what the king himself desired above all else—this secret carried weight that might prove even more devastating. Where the revelation of Guinevere's identity would have been a quick, clean cut, this knowledge was a poison that could seep slowly through Arthur's veins, corrupting every interaction between king and champion until nothing remained but suspicion and rage.
And this was not my only win this night. There had been one other golden finding—something that shocked me to my depths—something I was still attempting to make sense of, though the implications sent a cold thrill of possibility through me. BecauseI was fairly certain that I had witnessed something that defied all logic and reason.
The king had shifted into some form of beast. Something large and scaled. Something that breathed smoke and smelled of sulfur and ash.
Not metaphorically, as men sometimes speak when unleashing their animal nature in passion. No, this had been aliteraltransformation—a writhing, rippling change that had coursed across his flesh. As I watched, Arthur's very essence seemed to alter, his skin taking on a scaled texture that caught the moonlight. His eyes glowed a strange crimson, and he nearly doubled in size, as impossible as that sounded. But it was true—proof was in the shreds of his leather braies, which now decorated the ground. I reached to pick one up, all the while remembering the glimpses of his elongated canines and of fingernails that had extended into something resembling claws.
The dragon mark that covered his chest and back—that elaborate tattoo I had seen countless times in the baths and training grounds—seemed to come alive, writhing and shifting as if the inked beast sought to break free from the confines of mortal flesh.
Of course, I remembered that my father bore the same tattoo. The elaborate dragon that had decorated Uther's chest and back—identical in every detail to the one Arthur now carried. I'd always assumed Arthur had taken the mark as some tribute to his predecessor, a visible reminder of the legacy he'd inherited when he'd pulled that damned sword from the stone.
But now, standing in the moonlight with shredded leather in my hand and the lingering scent of sulfur burning my nostrils, I understood there was far more to it than simple homage.
My father's descent into madness flickered through my memory like scenes from a nightmare I'd tried desperately to forget. The great Uther Pendragon, reduced to a raving lunatic inhis final years. Spitting incomprehensible gibberish, clawing at his own skin as if trying to tear something free from beneath his flesh—a detail I'd dismissed at the time as fever or delirium.
I'd paid little attention then. What son wishes to witness his father's unraveling? I'd told myself his ravings meant nothing, that age and illness had simply claimed him as they claim all men eventually. And yet, there had been whispers. Rumors. Stories. The servants who tended him had spoken in hushed tones of his night terrors, of how he'd torn apart his chambers in fits of rage, leaving claw marks—claw marks—gouged into stone walls.
Claw marks I'd attributed to madness-fueled strength.
Now I wondered if that had been a grave oversight.
Was it possible the same affliction consuming Uther had now taken root in Arthur? That the tattoo itself was no mere decoration but something far more sinister—a curse, perhaps, or a mark of beastly possession? The creature I'd glimpsed tonight, the monster Arthur had begun transforming into—had that same beast lived beneath my father's skin, driving him toward eventual insanity?
The questions multiplied in my mind like breeding rats. How long had Arthur carried this curse? Did anyone else know of it? Merlin surely must have—the old bastard seemed to have his gnarled fingers in every secret worth knowing. And if this was hereditary, passed from Uther to Arthur through blood or ritual, what did that mean for the kingdom's future? And what did it mean for me?
I folded the torn leather carefully, tucking the precious evidence into my belt pouch.
As for the beast—his beast—there were far too many questions swirling through my mind like a maelstrom, far too many unknowns for my comfort. Each potential answer Igrasped onto seemed to spawn three more mysteries, creating an ever-expanding web that threatened to entangle me completely.
But I would find answers to every single one of my questions. I had to.
My magical sight had always shown me weaknesses—in armor, in walls, in the hearts of men. Now I turned that same relentless scrutiny toward every detail of what I'd observed tonight, like a scholar dissecting a particularly fascinating corpse: the way Arthur's muscles had begun to reshape themselves beneath his skin, the steam rising off his body, and the smoke in his breath. The savage hunger that had radiated from him...
Whatever dark legacy flowed through Pendragon blood, whatever curse or blessing had marked both father and son, I would uncover its secrets. Not just to unseat Arthur, but to ensure that the same thing—this madness, this lunacy—did not befall me.
A single thread of white upon the ground caught my eye, interrupting my inner musings. I reached down to retrieve the silken strand, pale as moonlight—her hair. One perfect strand had escaped to rest on the grass. I lifted it with the reverence one might show a sacred relic, twining it between my fingers, lifting it to my nose so I could get the scent of her, which of course was impossible with such a small specimen.
Anger flared through me again at the memory of what Elenora had taken from me—the opportunity to claim what should have been mine first. The rage burned hot in my chest, and my jaw clenched so tightly I could hear my teeth grinding together, the sound sharp in the forest stillness.
It was all I could do to calm my own ire, to force the wild beating of my heart back into something resembling normalcy. Deep breaths, measured and controlled. I couldn't afford to letfury cloud my judgment—not when I was so close to having everything I desired within my grasp.
