It was likely the same with all the knights and the courtiers who sat around me now. They must have thought their king had simply changed his mind—that I was anti-magic for years, only to reverse course once I realized Merlin was building an army of the magically inclined.
They had no idea my decision to ban magic had been to protect them all. Protect them from the thing sleeping inside me.
The dragon stirred at the thought, a lazy unfurling of awareness in the back of my skull.
Hunger,it whispered.So much meat gathered in one place.
I gripped the armrest of my throne until the wood creaked.
"If these trials go awry—" I began.
"—they won’t." Mordred's tone turned sharp as he faced me. "Surely, my king, you haven’t lost your nerve?"
I looked at him and narrowed my eyes. "I’ve lost nothing."
"Good." Polite. Mocking.
I returned my gaze to the candidates—would-be knights, fated fools.
Some buried their hands beneath servant skirts, laughing too loudly, too freely. Others hunched over cards and coins,gambling. In the far corner of the room, palms glowed with careless magic—green sparks, hovering flames.
Not just drunk on mead and ale. Drunk on power.
Just months ago, I’d have had them executed for it.
And now?
Now I expected them to stand with me against Merlin.
The thought of my former mentor sent a familiar heat through me—anger, worn smooth by time but no less potent. Few remembered how it began—the slow splintering between us. For years, Merlin stood at my right hand. His magic paved my path to the throne, even before my father’s death. Merlin was my greatest asset, dismantling enemies, securing my rule across Logres.
I was young, grateful, idealistic.
But then I began to see what others didn’t—the danger of his unchecked power. Not just to me, but to the realm.
The bard struck up a melody, lute strings vibrating with exaggerated bravado."King Arthur of Camelot, the hero Logres sought, who pulled the blade from ancient stone when all the rest could not! By strength of heart and iron will, he proved to mortal men that destiny had marked his path—and crowned him king again!"
Applause rippled through the hall, the knights roaring with drunken approval. The clinking of flagons against tables formed an impromptu rhythm, though the lyrics grated on my nerves.
Every note felt like the tip of a blade.
"Where tyrants rose and kingdoms fell, his steel refused to bend—A light that cleaved the night in two, a blade all hearts depend!"
The bard's voice leaped, attempting to capture the grandeur of battles long past—skirmishes I could barely remember. Reveling in tales tempered by years, far from the reality I now faced.
The dragonmark flared beneath my tunic, my skin uncomfortably warm. A reminder of commitments made, oaths sworn and broken.
"Through fire, blood, and bitter wrath, his spirit does not bend—A storm that answers cruelty with justice in the end."
The bard's lilt twisted as my patience frayed. I’d heard this story a thousand times, each retelling more fantastic than the last.
"Enough!" I barked sharply.
The bard faltered, voice strangled by interrupted verse. Silence at last.
Conversation ceased abruptly, the clatter of goblets and murmured discussions dying as though snuffed by an invisible hand. Eyes turned toward me from every corner of the great hall—courtiers pausing mid-sentence, knights lowering their flagons, even the servants freezing in their careful dance between the tables. The weight of their collective gaze pressed against me, some faces showing startled concern while others bore the careful neutrality of those who had learned to mask their thoughts in my presence.
Even Mordred, with his usual composed detachment, turned his mismatched eyes toward me with what might have been measured curiosity—or perhaps calculation. His pale fingers remained steady around his wine cup, but I caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze seemed to evaluate both my outburst and the room's reaction to it with equal interest.
