A ripple moved through the crowd, subtle as wind through grass. Their faces revealed a spectrum of emotion: fear, curiosity, and barely restrained excitement. The ladies of the court leaned forward, expressions schooled into proper disdain—magic was taboo, yes, but it was also irresistible. I also couldn't help but notice how most of the ladies' attention was completely reserved for Lancelot. He didn't appear to notice.
The first candidate stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and anxious eyes. I didn’t recognize him from any of Merlin’s inked portraits, so I assumed he was not someone of importance. His hands trembled slightly as he summoned a small flickering ball of flame. It hovered between his palms, glowing hot and unstable.
A collective intake of breath swept through the observers. Yet I noticed the King's response—the slightest crease of displeasure across his brow. I understood why—the magic demonstrated poor discipline. Focus. Still, magic remained magic, and provided we could manifest it when ordered, it would suffice.
With a polite nod, Mordred dismissed the man, telling him he had passed this first trial. The man bowed stiffly, relief appearing in every hurried step as he retreated.
More knights followed.
One raised pillars of earth that shaped themselves into marching stone soldiers—each one no taller than a goblet, but perfectly formed. Another conjured illusions of mythical beasts—griffins and wyverns prowling the air just above the heads of the assembled court.
Mordred watched impassively and declared both had passed.
But I wasn’t watching the magic alone—I studied the court itself. The nobility played their part, but behind their jeweled masks, the real theater unfolded: subtle glances, whispered judgments, and nods of approval exchanged between allies.
Arthur’s face remained unreadable. But the nobles around him? They were open books—every reaction a paragraph in a story of courtly alliances and power games.
The northern lords—easily marked by their fur-lined cloaks despite the hall’s warmth—leaned forward whenever elemental magic was displayed. One white-bearded patriarch gave a pleased nod as a frost mage encased his entire body (save for his face) in ice without so much as a wince, then murmured something that made his companions chuckle.
In contrast, the southern houses—draped in lighter fabrics and covered with ornate jewelry—reserved their interest for magic with battlefield potential. A thin-faced duchess applauded when a knight transformed a wooden staff into a dozen steel arrows, each one thudding into a perfect circle on a distant banner.
The eastern houses presented themselves with an air of exotic allure—dressed in silks dyed to mimic peacock hues and their garments embroidered with gold thread in patterns thatdazzled like mosaics. They watched the proceedings with a mix of detachment and interest. According to Merlin, they had an affinity for illusion magic and artifice. Each display of visual splendor or feats of cunning held their attention the longest.
Just as a knight made a mirage of himself, splitting into three identical copies to bewilder the rest of us, the eastern nobles leaned toward one another, their eyes full of appreciation. They sought artistry over raw power—a perception that magic was an extension of the soul's creativity as much as its strength.
To the west sat their counterparts, all bearing expressions of aggressive pragmatism—a sharp-edged economy to every glance and word. Their attire was far more subdued than the flamboyant east, yet meticulously designed to convey wealth without overt display. Rich mahoganies and deep forest greens were their palette, reflecting the western wealth rooted in timber and ore.
For them, showiness meant little. Functionality and subtlety held sway. Their conversations, if only captured in snatches of passing observation, were punctuated by gruff cavalier phrases like “versatile” and “strategic.”
I studied them all—their nuances, alliances, the invisible threads weaving through the court tapestry. Each territory wanted to see their own succeed—that was no surprise, for victory here meant victory for their houses, their homelands.
As more knights stepped forward, I continued my assessment—cataloging strengths, flaws, and tells. Most showed raw talent with little refinement, which made sense. Magic was outlawed in Logres and had been for many years. These men had honed their craft in secret, if at all, guided by instinct rather than mentorship.
Throughout the entire trial, I mostly kept my eyes on the king. He didn't reveal much—maybe a slow, approving nod hereand a flicker in his jaw there. Otherwise, his face was impassive, his expressions revealing nothing.
But kings have secrets, and thrones cast shadows.
CHAPTER SIX
-GUIN-
The Summoning Trial
Sir Kay of Caer Cadarn stepped forward.
Arthur’s foster brother.
Of course, most of these knights were already known to Arthur—they had taken residence here in Camelot's sprawling halls long before he'd outlawed magic, back when sorcerers openly walked the marble corridors and enchantments flickered in every shadow. They had served at his table, fought at his side, and sworn their oaths beneath these very banners that now hung silent and still.
As to why they were performing for him now—displaying their abilities like trained performers in some elaborate theater? All of us were meant to appear as equals in this grand charade, each knight demonstrating his worth as if we stood on level ground before our king. With the exception of Sir Lancelot, of course, who had remained steadfastly at Arthur's side through thick and thin. Lancelot had earned his place through blood andunwavering loyalty, while the rest of us were here to prove we deserved ours.
But back to Sir Kay—the man with the sharpest tongue in Camelot—and the fewest friends to show for it. He had been passed over for glory when Arthur took the throne, and rather than play the court’s game, Kay had withdrawn—burying himself in military doctrine like a man digging his own grave.
His magic? The ability to see weaknesses in anything—or anyone.
Merlin had been crystal clear:Avoid him at all costs.
Up close, Kay looked worn past his thirty-eight years. The once-fiery red of his hair had faded to gray in some spots and to bald in others. His thin lips curled in a near-permanent sneer, as if the world itself left a bitter taste in his mouth.
