Something deadly.
CHAPTER NINE
-ARTHUR-
The great hall of Camelot roared with life, a storm of voices, clashing goblets, and the warm glow of firelight trembling along the stone walls.
Long tables stretched from one end of the chamber to the other, crowded with knights still wearing the dust and sweat of training, their laughter ringing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Pitchers of dark, murky ale were passed from hand to hand, the foam sloshing over the rims as men drank deeply, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands before digging into platters of roasted meats. The ale was thick and malty, brewed in the castle’s own cellars, and it tasted like grain and earth—a drink for men who lived their lives by the sword.
At the high table, servants poured amber mead into polished silver cups. Honey-warm and sweet, its scent—clover, heather, a touch of wildflower—drifted through the hall like a memory of summer.
Wine, deep red and velvety, glimmered in the jeweled goblet set before me. Imported from across the sea, it was a luxury meant to mark occasion, not habit.
Drunken knights hammered the tables in rhythm as a pair of minstrels struck up a lively tune, flutes and lutes weaving through the air like dancing spirits. The scent of roasted boar and honeycake mingled with the tang of ale-soaked wood, and the entire room pulsed with a wild, celebratory magic—something that had been foreign to Camelot for seven long years.
Serving girls perched on knights' laps, whispering promises behind painted lips. Drink flowed freely, loosening tongues and inhibitions alike.
These men—Camelot’s so-called champions. But were they truly worthy?
I studied their flushed faces, weighing them against the threat gathering beyond our borders. Magic flickered at their fingertips—uncontrolled. Flames danced across knuckles. Goblets hovered in midair. Cheers followed every reckless display.
The only reason the use of magic didn't cause the dragon to stir here and now was due to the wards all along Camelot's borders. Wards created by Merlin and reinforced by Mordred. Of course, Mordred didn't know of the existence of the dragon and simply thought he was warding the castle against would-be threats. But Merlin knew. He'd known from the moment I'd taken the dragonmark from my father.
I shifted, the weight of the crown pressing against my skull. Seven years of vigilance undone in a single night of sanctioned sorcery. The irony did not escape me.
"More wine, Your Majesty?"
A servant girl stood at my side, head bowed, golden-brown hair obscuring her face. I studied the curve of her neck, the small birthmark beneath her ear. She looked vaguely familiar. Had I already taken her to my chambers? Perhaps. Their facesblurred together—temporary distractions from burdens that never lifted, even when I removed the crown.
Her hands trembled as she held the silver pitcher. Not just fear. Anticipation. Hope. Royal favor, a place at court, the status of a king’s bedmate—they all wanted something from me. I’d learned that early.
I waved her off without a word, my eyes locked on the chaos before me.
One knight conjured butterflies of light for a pair of giggling wenches. Another pair tested their strength through magically enhanced arm wrestling. Elemental power flared like festival tricks, with no care for control or consequence.
Madness. All of it.
And yet—what choice did I have?
The dragon was stirring. No doubt, Merlin had somehow reawakened it. And he was now amassing his forces in Annwyn. Creatures bound tohiswill. Forests twisted byhismagic. Realms warped by time. The spies I’d sent to the stones—those few who returned—brought tales that strained belief. And here I sat, watching half-trained boys flaunt their tricks, hoping they’d stand against the man who once taught me everything I knew.
I hunted witches while Merlin built an army. I executed peasants for healing wounds or predicting rain, while he forged monsters from myth and memory.
The wine curdled in my gut.
"They show promise," Mordred said beside me, his voice smooth as always. His mismatched eyes gleamed with something far too close to delight. "Raw talent—waiting for proper direction."
"Or proper restraint," I replied. "Magic corrupts. You've seen it yourself."
"Our hand has been forced, Majesty. Now we must fight fire with fire."
Mordred understood theneedto face Merlin. But he didn't know my real reasons for wanting to do so—my desperate hope that the old wizard would subdue the dragon before it consumed me entirely. Mordred couldn't know because he didn't know about the dragon at all.
As for the reason why I'd outlawed magic seven years ago, Mordred had the intelligence not to ask. When a king gives a command, those who value their necks simply accept it.
I imagined Mordred thought me somewhat mad—outlawing magic, only to turn around and host the Shadow Trials. But he seemed to accept my reasoning: that in order to face Merlin, we had to do so with magic of our own.
