He had better not fail us,the dragon seethed.
He will not, I thought in response.
I returned to the hall while the Fox melted into the tapestry of Camelot's secrets, his movements like whispers carried on the wind.
I spent the rest of the night in restless sleep, dreams dragging me under like a tide I couldn’t fight. Linen sheets twisted around my limbs, suddenly coarse, suffocating.
Each time I drifted off,shereturned—that hair, those eyes, and that maddening blend of innocence and defiance. In one dream, she stood before the stone again—not just drawing the sword, but pointing it at me, blade steady, glowing with a light I used to know.
I had woken gasping, my hand reaching instinctively for a sword that was no longer mine.
-ARTHUR-
Dawn found me exhausted. My physician gave me a bitter tonic, but it couldn't flush her from my mind.
I was losing sleep over a servant girl.
A scullery maid.
And yet she’d pulled Excalibur from the stone.
Was she a witch sent by Merlin? Or merely a frightened girl who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was Nimue responsible?
All I knew was that the heat the girl had stirred in me hadn't faded. After tossing and turning, I'd had to relieve my cock of its weight in the wee hours of the morning, and, of course, I'd imagined her spread out before me. I'd had to do the same again this morning, before the trial. And yet, I felt no better—still unsatisfied. Still angry with myself that I'd had her and yet allowed her to escape.
The early sun hung heavy in the sky, flooding the Castle Green with gold and shadow. Light spilled across the open grassland, throwing long, dark fingers. I took my place upon the field throne as the sun broke through Camelot’s morning haze. The wooden dais beneath me creaked softly as I settled into the high-backed chair—oak carved with the wings of the Pendragon, draped with crimson and gold banners that stirred in the wind. It was not the throne of the great hall, but it carried its own weight, its own gravity. A king did not need stone walls to command obedience.
Guards flanked me: two at my back, two at my sides, their armor glinting like shards of captured sunrise. Beneath the awning stretched above my dais, the air was cooler but still heavy with the scent of trampled grass and anticipation—the kind that ripples through a crowd when judgment is about to fall.
Before me, the Castle Green expanded in a wide arc of close-cut grass, bordered by posts draped with colored ribbons. At its center lay the Labyrinth—a vast maze formed of thirteen towering megaliths arranged in a perfect ring. Each stone loomed twenty feet high, joined by a massive slab laid across its shoulders. Together they shaped a ring of ancient gateways—shadowed alcoves carved by time and intention. The spacesbetween them narrowed like corridors, drawing the eye inward toward the circle’s heart.
Behind me, tiered wooden stands rose in a semicircle. My courtiers filled them in orderly ranks, according to hierarchy. To my right, the highborn crowded the cushioned benches—dukes, marquesses, my closest advisors—all preening in their jewels and fine fabrics as though their worth depended on how brightly they glittered beneath the sun. To my left, the lesser lords filled their rows, murmuring among themselves, eager for the spectacle.
Behind them all, ladies of the court clustered like bright-winged birds, their fans fluttering as they whispered gossip about the competitors. The court carried on with their endless gossiping and whispered machinations, their voices a low hum of anticipation that grated against my already frayed nerves. Scribes perched at the edges of the stands, quills already scratching notes before the first contestant stepped forward. The would-be knights stood behind my dais in a curved line of steel, their armor forming a gleaming wall.
I rested my palm on the pommel of the ceremonial sword laid across the small table beside me. Not Excalibur—never Excalibur—but still a symbol of the crown’s judgment. The wood beneath my hand hummed faintly, though whether it was my imagination or the dragon buried inside me stirring at the scent of impending combat, I could not say.
The dragon always woke for blood.
My gaze swept the stands, and the courtiers lowered their eyes, as they always did. The wind curled around the dais, tugging at the edges of my cloak.
My mind was not on those surrounding me for long. Of course, it continuously returned to the white-haired woman.
Our treasure.
As with the evening before, much earlier this morning, every servant had been questioned. One by one, they had stood before me, eyes wide, hands wringing their aprons, trembling as if my gaze alone might condemn them. The older ones—those who’d served since my father’s reign—seemed especially wary, perhaps sensing something darker stirring beneath my questions.
The kitchen master, so proud of knowing every soul in his domain, had crumbled under my stare, his confidence draining as he admitted ignorance.
Not a soul in Camelot knew of a maid with white hair—none named Elaine and none named Adele. No whispers, no records. The steward's logs showed no recent hires, no granted visitors.
It was as if she’d never existed at all.
A ghost, perhaps. Or worse—a harbinger of the magic I’d spent years trying to purge from this realm.
As with the evening before, every inch of the castle had been searched again at my command—from the highest tower to the lowest cellar. Guards overturned beds, dumped trunks, and emptied wardrobes. Still, no trace. Nothing but silence and the echo of my own obsession.
Had I imagined her?
