The man who had haunted my training for three long years now sat just yards away—no longer a legend, but flesh and blood.
He was far more imposing than Merlin’s bitter descriptions had prepared me for. Arthur didn’t merely sit on the throne; he commanded the space around it with the quiet gravity of a collapsing star. Gold cloth shimmered across his large frame, catching the light with his every movement. His broad shouldersfilled the ornate seat, and even while seated, his stature seemed to dwarf the court around him.
Handsome, yes, undeniably so—but with a severe, unyielding beauty forged in battle, not bred in courts. His face could’ve been sculpted from marble: a hard jaw dusted with a perfectly groomed beard, high cheekbones, and lips drawn into a line that suggested he rarely smiled—and laughed even less. His once-golden hair had darkened beneath the weight of his crown, streaks of silver coiling at his temples like creeping frost.
But it was his eyes that truly unsettled me—piercing, glacial blue, sharp enough to flay secrets from bone. Even at a distance, I felt the cut of that gaze as it raked over the assembled candidates, each look a dissection. A predator surveying prey.
Dark shadows pooled beneath those eyes, speaking of sleepless nights and burdens that would snap the spine of a lesser man. His grip on the golden scepter was a death clutch—knuckles bloodless, fingers locked around the symbol of his reign as if it might try to escape him.
This was not a king at peace with his power.
This was a man holding an empire together with sheer will—one frayed nerve away from shattering.
Even the crown seemed less a symbol of sovereignty than a visible weight—its pressure reflected in the tension of his posture, the tight control of every micro-expression. Here sat the tyrant who had ordered my parents’ deaths.
And I hated him.
With all of me.
At Arthur’s side stood Sir Lancelot du Lac—Arthur's infamous shadow. The only existing knight of the Round Table—the one man who did not need to prove himself to his king in the Shadow Trials.
Merlin, who had interacted with nearly all of these knights during his tenure serving Arthur prior to the ban on magic,had reviewed with me the details of every aspiring knight. Parchments filled with inked portraits, combat records, magical abilities, strengths, and weaknesses—they were profiles so precise they read like prophecy. I’d memorized them all.
And yet, no parchment had done Lancelot justice.
Even motionless, he radiated danger. His armor—immaculate black steel inlaid with silver—bore Arthur's crest with a personal emblem of a silver wolf. Everything about Lancelot embodied the predator whose symbol he bore: the calculated stillness before the strike, the way his dark eyes tracked movement with wolfish focus, the sense that beneath his courtly veneer lurked something wild and barely leashed. Even his stance suggested coiled power, muscles held in perfect readiness, as if he might spring into lethal motion at the slightest provocation.
There was something distinctly lupine in the way he surveyed the great hall—not with Arthur's imperial assessment of his domain, but with the territorial awareness of an apex predator marking his hunting ground. His gaze lingered on each knight-candidate with the patient voltage of a hunter evaluating prey, cataloging weaknesses with the precision that had made him a legend.
He was, without exaggeration, the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
A full head taller than most, shoulders like fortress ramparts, his was a warrior’s physique honed through decades of war. Jet-black hair framed a face that seemed carved by the gods themselves—every angle severe, every line flawless. There was no softness in him. Just control. And violence, barely restrained.
He carried the unwavering self-assurance of someone unfamiliar with failure. Merlin's documentation on Lancelot had been extensive. He ranked Lancelot as the foremost danger tome after Arthur himself. In observing Lancelot now, I could understand why. His arcane talent emerged as combat foresight—he could predict his adversary's actions moments before execution, rendering him practically invincible.
But, according to Merlin, behind Lancelot's formidable exterior was a soul consumed by a desperate emptiness that he filled with women, drink, and glory—though he never found satisfaction in any.
When our eyes met, I immediately looked away.
On Arthur’s opposite side stood Lord Mordred. He had been Merlin's pupil before Arthur and Merlin had their falling out.
Mordred came from an ancient noble house that had served Logres for generations, and his reputation had traveled farther than any royal decree—even the hidden groves of Annwyn had whispered his name. His eyes were what froze the blood: one glacial blue, the other pure obsidian with no visible pupil. Those eyes didn’t look at you—theyreadyou. Not the surface, but what lay buried beneath it.
His posture was perfect. His frame lean, almost delicate—until he moved. Then came the snap of whipcord strength. Every motion was calculated. Surgical.
The Royal Archmage was infamous throughout the realm for his spells and potions—concoctions that could heal mortal wounds or induce agonizing death. Unlike those blessed with natural magical gifts flowing through their bloodlines, Mordred possessed something arguably more dangerous: the intellect to craft magic from raw components, to bend arcane forces through sheer will and meticulous study.
Where others channeled power instinctively, he constructed it methodically—each incantation a masterwork, every ritual a symphony. His magic was artificial, yes, but that made it no less potent. If anything, his manufactured sorcery carried an edge of unpredictability that even seasoned mages found unsettling.
“The first of the Shadow Trials begins,” he declared, his voice slicing clean through the murmurs of the hall. “The Summoning Trial.”
He paused, letting the silence thicken.
"Every candidate will advance and demonstrate their core magical gift. Should you fail to summon magic when commanded, you shall be discharged and may depart unharmed. Upon dismissal, you shall still remain bound by Camelot's statutes and shall refrain from wielding your magic. Sorcery is permitted solely within Camelot's walls, by the sovereign's decree."
My mouth went dry.
This was it—the first test.
