He offered no greeting, no ceremony, and none of the houses cheered him as they had with the others who hailed from their locations. Instead, the court was entirely silent.
So was Kay. He just gave a stare—fixed, cutting—to Arthur as he raised a hand and pointed toward one of the stone columns supporting the vaulted ceiling.
“There.”
A faintcrackechoed through the hall as a hairline fracture suddenly splintered across the stone. Guards lurched forward. Courtiers gasped.
Kay lifted his other hand, casual, almost bored.
“The flaw was already there. I simply revealed it.” His voice scraped like steel on marble. “Every structure. Every person. Every plan. They all have inherent flaws. My magic finds those flaws and exposes them, such as the crack in the column where, if left to fester, will eventually bring down this entire room.”
Then his gaze swept across the candidates surrounding him—clinical, dissecting.
And when his eyes found me, they stopped.
Theylingered.
He was a hunter scenting prey. A blade hovering over exposed flesh.
I held his gaze, expression impassive. But inside, alarm tightened like a vice. Of everyone in this hall, Sir Kay was the one most likely to tear my illusion apart.
School your concern,I told myself, maintaining supreme control over my emotions, lest they affect my disguise.
Thankfully, Kay moved on.
The next knight approached with a small wooden box cradled in his arms.
Sir Percival Pellinore. He hailed from the West, but even they seemed uninterested in him—his applause was minor, at best.
His stride was loose and easy, as if oblivious to the formality of the moment. But I recognized him instantly—he’d been the focus of an entire evening’s study under Merlin’s instruction.
Not just for his magic, but for the strange machinery of his mind.
The portrait had captured his outward appearance: unruly straw-colored curls, bright blue eyes filled with unguarded wonder, an open face that made him look younger than his thirty years. Not classically handsome—but disarmingly pleasant.
What no ink or parchment could capture, however, was his energy—like standing near a flame in the cold. There was something decidedly warm about him. Kind.
“Your Majesty,” Percival said, bowing with a kind of cheerful clumsiness. “I’ve brought a wounded subject for demonstration of my abilities.”
He opened the box to reveal a peregrine falcon—its wing twisted, hanging at an unnatural angle. The bird squawked, eyes wide with pain.
“I spoke with your falconer this morning," Percival continued. "The falcon broke its wing during training.” He stroked the bird with gentle fingers, his voice low and soothing. “There now. We’ll fix you up.”
He placed both palms over the mangled wing and closed his eyes.
A soft green glow bloomed around his hands—light without heat. It spread over the falcon like mist. At the same moment, Percival’s face twisted in obvious pain, his shoulders hunched, breath hitching. Sweat dotted his brow.
Clearly, he was taking the bird's pain into himself.
His gift was one of healing, though not through command of life—but throughshared suffering.
When Percival lifted his hands, the falcon’s wing sat perfectly aligned—feathers sleek, unmarred, as if the break had never happened. The bird gave an experimental flap, then let out a sharp, triumphant cry.
But Percival winced as he flexed his own arm. His movements were stiff, pained. The cost was written on his face.
Mordred turned to face the noble houses behind him. “Sir Percival doesn’t simply heal; he takes the suffering into himself.”
The court finally applauded, but meekly. As I watched Percival, I felt something stir in me. Not awe. Not pity. Respect. Genuine and unfiltered. Selflessness like that was rare currency in a court drowning in ambition.
