Arthur believed he could control the dragon.
He couldn't.
That was the rift between us, the fundamental break that no amount of history or affection could bridge. It started with trust. It broke with fear. Now it would end in war.
I stopped before the window, watching rain streak down the glass. Beyond lay the kingdom we'd both sworn to protect—Arthur with his sword, me with my magic. Once, that had been enough.
Uther's last days replayed behind my eyes: the violent consumption, flesh burning from within as the dragon's power devoured him. And Arthur had bound that same beast to himself in an act of supreme courage or supreme folly—I still couldn't decide which.
Along with Blodeuwyn, I'd helped seal the dragon inside him. I'd vowed to keep the world safe. Together, with Arthur. But I'd also promised myself that if he slipped, if he fell into the same darkness his father had, that I would intervene—whatever the cost. The weight of that promise hung like a millstone around my neck, grinding against my conscience with every passing day. I'd watched him grow from a bright-eyed boy into a king whose shadow lengthened with each passing season, whose nights grew more tormented by whispers no one else could hear.
My fingers traced the constellation patterns on my sleeve, feeling the embedded magic pulse in response. The stars there shifted slightly, as if sensing my unease. How many years had I walked this earth, guiding kings and queens toward their destinies? Yet none had wounded me as deeply as this betrayal—this slow, agonizing transformation of a boy I'd loved into a tyrant I had to oppose.
I understood, in those first years, why Arthur believed he needed to act. The dragon fed on magic, grew stronger when surrounded by it. To weaken the beast, Arthur had to weaken the source.
Starve the dragon. Starve magic.
I could accept that logic, cold as it was.
But starving magic didn't have to mean ending it. It didn't have to mean execution squads combing the countryside, burning homes, dragging children from their mothers' arms. It didn't have to mean what happened at Hawthorn Glen.
I'd tried. Gods, I'd tried. Offered alternatives. Binding spells. Oath magic. Sanctuaries where practitioners could be monitored, contained if necessary. Places where magic could exist under watchful eyes without the threat of extinction.
Arthur refused every suggestion.
That was when I finally saw past the justifications, past the fear, past the noble rhetoric about protecting his kingdom.
What drove him wasn't necessity.
It was bloodlust.
The dragon's hunger had become his own, and he'd convinced himself each death was duty rather than desire. Each pyre fed the beast he claimed to contain.
The crystals braided into my beard clinked softly as I exhaled, their delicate sound at odds with the storm brewing within me. I'd taught him everything—shown him the delicate balance between power and restraint—only to watch him systematically destroy it all in the name of control. The very magic that could have saved him, he now hunted ruthlessly.
If he slips, I will stop him.
It had been my pact with myself.
And now I had to honor it.
Because the dragon was waking. Arthur's anger grew sharper, his fear deeper with each passing day. He wouldn't hear reason, wouldn't accept warnings.
He thought himself stronger than Uther.
"This is how your father fell," I'd told him during our final meeting before everything shattered.
His eyes had flashed with something that wasn't entirely human. "I am not my father. And I don't need your chains."
In that moment, trust between us was shattered like glass beneath a hammer.
And it was then that I realized Arthur was headed for the same fate as his father.
The realization had settled over me like frost, cold but inevitable. But unlike Uther, Arthur couldn't simply die. His death would shatter the binding, unleash the dragon into the world—a creature of pure destruction with no host to contain it. Killing him wasn't an option.
Butreplacinghim was.
I left Camelot that night.
