The second engagement had been... different.
Lady Isolde of Corbenic. She'd possessed a mind as sharp as any blade in my armory, one that delighted in dissecting the complexities of statecraft. And she was easily the most lovely woman in the realm. When I'd attempted the traditional courtship rituals, she laughed outright at such formalities. Instead, she'd cornered me in the library after council meetings, her dark eyes blazing with intellectual fire as she challenged my policies on taxation and trade agreements.
Those conversations had stretched deep into countless nights, wine forgotten as we debated the merits of centralized versus regional governance, the ethics of conscription, and the delicate balance between noble privilege and common welfare. She'd argued with the passion of someone who genuinely cared about the kingdom's future, not merely her place in it. When she disagreed with my decisions—which happened frequently—she'd present her counterarguments with such compelling logic that I found myself reconsidering positions I'd held for years.
Love? Perhaps not. But the possibility had existed. Then my father died. With his death, the dragonmark transferred to me, and everything changed. The beast's hunger made intimacy inconceivable. How could I take a wife when the creature inside me viewed everyone as either prey or threat? How could I risk children who might inherit this curse?
I'd ended the betrothal without explanation.
"Sire, it would be prudent—" Mordred began, his tone slipping into that maddening calm he used when pressing something he’d decided was necessary.
"—for you to end this conversation." Steel threaded my voice. It was the same tone that had silenced nobles and brokengenerals. "I have no interest in taking a wife. Not when Merlin’s power spreads. Not when war is inevitable, and alliances can turn to liabilities overnight." Not when I can feel the dragon growing stronger with each bloody day that passes.
The thought made my jaw clench. A wife meant vulnerability. A target. A name my enemies could whisper in threats, or worse—carve into tombstones.
A wife meant something to lose.
"Arthur." Lance’s voice cut through my thoughts as he dropped into the chair beside me, clearly inebriated. "You look like a man attending his own funeral."
"And yet the dead don’t drink," I replied, lifting my untouched goblet.
Lance was the only person bold enough to call me by my given name. And the only person I would ever allow to get away with it. His dark hair was tousled, eyes bright with wine and revelry. Unlike me, he’d embraced the evening’s offerings with ease.
Lance was the last of my knights of the old kingdom—before I'd outlawed magic. The rest had returned home, and Camelot had become as quiet as a graveyard.
The rest all returned home with the exception of one,I reminded myself.
Corvin of Blackhollow.
The one man I'd considered as close to me as Lance—perhaps even closer, if I was honest with myself. Corvin had been more than my knight; he'd been my conscience, my moral compass in the early days when the crown still felt foreign on my head. Where Lance was my sword arm, fierce and loyal but never questioning, Corvin had been my voice of reason, the one who dared to challenge my decisions when he believed them to be wrong.
The memory of his departure still felt like a blade between my ribs, twisting whenever I allowed myself to remember the look in his eyes the day he’d sided with Merlin and walked away from Camelot.
Corvin and I had met when we were on the verge of becoming men. He’d become a myth along the borders—the Ghost of Blackhollow, they’d called him. In truth, he was a young ranger who protected villages that had been abandoned by the crown, abandoned by my father.
The legend of the Ghost of Blackhollow had spread throughout the realm. In fact, he’d topped my father’s list of most hunted fugitives. But whereas my father sought his death, I desired his allegiance. Thus, when I was newly risen as the chosen king, I’d sought him out personally. We’d sparred first, then argued, then laughed, then bled together, fighting off a band of highwaymen.
By dawn, we were brothers.
I convinced him to ride to Camelot—not to bow, but to build. To shape a kingdom that wouldn’t abandon its edges the way Uther had.
Corvin was the first to swear the Round Table oath.
He became my shadow on the battlefield, my confidant when politics soured, the one knight who could speak truth to the king without fear, and the one who understood the weight of a crown not by wearing it, but by nearly being crushed beneath the consequences of the previous one.
As close as Corvin and I had become, he was just as close with Merlin. In truth, he looked to Merlin as a mentor, a compass. And when the catastrophic break between Merlin and me finally came, it tore Corvin in half. He pleaded with us both. He fought for reconciliation. But in the end, he sided with Merlin and betrayed me—his king, his brother.
And there would come a day when I would have his head for it.
"How can you think of death when celebration surrounds you?" Lance asked, pulling my attention back to the present moment.
His gaze lingered—devoted, perceptive. Lance had saved my life once—at Highwater Ridge. Since then, he’d remained my only knight, my most loyal friend, my fiercest blade, and the most dangerous man in any room.
I breathed in deeply. "Celebration feels premature."
He laughed, rich and easy, then gestured across the hall. "What you need is better company than your own thoughts."
A woman approached then, as if on cue. Small, graceful. Honey-blonde hair spilled over bare shoulders, her gown scandalously cut. Her breasts were large and round, threatening to break free from her bodice. She moved with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone used to being watched. She wasn’t one of the usual courtesans—I would have remembered her.
