"What is it?" I asked.
"Caer Gwyll. The Castle of Twilight."
It was wild. Beautiful. Free. Much like Annwyn itself.
And Arthur would burn it to the ground if he could.
-GUIN-
When we entered Caer Gwyll, I felt like I might pass out. Because now, I stood inhisdomain, awaiting his judgment, my knees threatening to buckle.
And I was completely alone. The silence pressed against me, making me acutely aware of my own ragged breathing echoing in the vast chamber. I didn't know when they'd taken their leave of me—one moment the Twilight Wardens had been flanking me, their silver eyes watching my every move, and the next I found myself standing solitary in this mystical throne room.
Bookshelves lined the walls, all the way to the clouds that formed a nonexistent ceiling, the books alive with subtle movement. As I watched, several tomes gently dislodged themselves, hovering momentarily before settling into different positions. Some opened their covers, pages fluttering as though caught in a breeze I couldn't feel.
At the center of this chamber stood a throne. Carved from what appeared to be a single massive piece of heartwood, the wood had petrified to stone-like hardness, yet somehow remained alive—tiny green leaves sprouting from the armrests.
My attention shifted to the tapestries hanging from the walls between the bookshelves. Each depicted scenes of magical conflict, rendered in shimmering threads. One depicted a young Merlin standing shoulder to shoulder with a golden-haired boy I assumed was Arthur, both facing shadowy creatures with staffs raised. Another portrayed these same men locked in combat against each other, the towers of what must have been Camelot crumbling between them.
A third tapestry caught my eye. This one depicted a blue-haired woman rising from a lake, offering a sword to a young Arthur. The legendary sword in the stone—Excalibur.
Without conscious thought, my magic stirred. The binding vines around my wrists couldn't prevent the moisture in the air from gathering around my fingers, forming delicate droplets that orbited my hands like tiny moons.
"Isn't she lovely?" came a soft voice. "The Lady of the Lake."
An old woman stepped from the shadows. Her skin was the color of aged parchment, mapped with countless fine wrinkles, but her eyes were clear and kind, observing me with gentle curiosity.
“I am Eliora, historian of Caer Gwyll."
She studied me, then the vines around my wrists, and seemingly in response, they unwound themselves, retreating like obedient pets.
“Am I a prisoner?”
“Neither prisoner nor guest. Not yet. That depends on the Sovereign.” She paused. "Though I suspect he already knows exactly who you are."
I frowned. “The Sovereign knows who I am?”
“There is very little the Sovereign does not know.”
Before I could ask what that meant, the great doors opened. The Twilight Wardens entered in perfect formation, their movements synchronized as though they shared a single mind. They formed a path between the doors and the place where I stood, silver eyes fixed forward, expressions unreadable.
And thenheentered—Merlin, the Twilight Sovereign, the Archmage of Annwyn. The figure who had haunted countless sleepless nights throughout Logres.
Yet the man who walked toward me now bore little resemblance to the nightmarish stories that preceded him. The whispered legends spoke of glowing eyes that could peer into souls, of withered hands that left decay in their wake, of a voice that could compel the dead to rise and serve. But this figuremoved with quiet dignity rather than menace, his presence commanding yet oddly comforting.
The twinkling constellations embroidered into his midnight robes seemed to pulse, each star shifting in unison with his movements. As he drew nearer, the details of his face came into focus: prominent cheekbones framing deep-set eyes. Silver-white hair and a matching beard fell to his shoulders, woven with tiny crystals that caught every glint of light. But it was his eyes that held me transfixed—storm gray with flecks of sapphire blue, piercing.
“You are the one who crossed the stones."
"Yes."
"Yet you are alive."
"Yes."
He approached with measured steps, studying me with an unreadable expression. "What brings a daughter of Logres to risk death crossing the Standing Stones?"
I wasn't sure why, but I explained everything: the marketplace, the water serpent, the King's Guard, my parents' death, the flood.
