The thought gnawed at me. Wine had flowed freely that night—dark, heady Frankish red—but I’d never known drink to warp my mind so fully. No, it wasn’t the wine. She was real. I was certain.
I’d felt the weight of her pressed against me, smelled the faint sweetness of lavender and water on her skin. I'd felt the tight wetness of her.
I hadn't conjured that. I couldn’t have.
Mordred and Lance had exchanged wary glances when I'd ordered the search. No doubt they thought their king daft—gripped by lust for a kitchen girl. Perhaps they believed I’d chase her until desire burned out and sense returned.
But they hadn’t seen what I had.
And they could never know the truth.
If they knew the sword had responded to her—yielded to her—after it had denied me for so very long, they would question everything.
Still, doubt lingered. If I hadn't dreamed her, was she a specter, bound to Camelot’s stones by some ancient curse? Or just the product of exhaustion and power too long held with clenched fists? Perhaps she was a vision brought on by the delirium of the Dragonmark. Was this yet another sign that I was following in the footsteps of Uther and that the dragon would soon defeat me, just as it had him?
But no, the dragon was just as taken with her as I was.
Hair like starlight, falling to her waist in white waves. Eyes that held the lake’s depth—and something deeper still.
Eyes that knew too much.
Eyes that hadseenme.
Even now, I couldn’t banish her from my thoughts. And not far beyond thoughts of her were thoughts of what she'd done. What I'd witnessed her doing.
Pullingmysword from the stone.
No struggle. No effort. Just…release.
The blade—myblade, the symbol of my right to rule—had surrendered to her as if it had been waiting for her all along. As if I had merely been holding her place.
“Your Majesty?” Mordred’s voice snapped me back to the reality unfolding before me.
He stood inside the stone circle, now flanked by the candidates. When they had moved from behind me, I didn't know. A silver chalice rested beside him. The morning sun caught the streak in his black hair, and runes shimmered across his ceremonial robes. He raised his hands, and the circle quieted.
Despite myself, I felt that old, familiar tension creeping up my spine every time his eyes found mine—that unnerving combination of piercing blue and bottomless obsidian, as though he lookedthroughme, notatme. Seven years of uneasy alliance, seven years with Mordred as my Royal Archmage, and still I couldn't bring myself to fully trust the man who had replaced Merlin.
Maybe it was the shadow of his former master that clung to him like an invisible cloak. Or maybe it was simply the truth every king knows deep in his bones—any man with power is a threat, no matter how loyal he claims to be.
But Mordred had served me well. That much was indisputable. Yet every precise movement, every potion, every spell echoed memories of Merlin in his final days—his calm, his cunning, his dangerous restraint.
I shifted on my throne, the crown pressing heavily against my brow. How many nights had I stared at the ceiling, wondering if Mordred still spoke with his master in secret? If his loyalty belonged to me…
But doubts are luxuries kings cannot afford. I’d learned that lesson too well. Necessary evils must be embraced. Sometimes you must hold close what you fear… in order to control what you cannot destroy.
The Labyrinth—Mordred’s crowning creation—seemed alive with ancient power. Each stone had been enchanted by Mordred himself, designed to reveal each knight's innermost fears and darkest secrets. Even from my vantage point, I could feel the raw power emanating from the maze, a testament to both Mordred's skill and the old magic that still lingered in the bones of Logres.
"Begin," I said, my voice cutting across the stillness.
Mordred lifted the chalice, reverent and measured. “Each of you will drink from the chalice,” he announced. “Once you do, your bodies will remain here—but your minds will enter theLabyrinth.” He paused—no doubt for dramatic effect. "What you face within the Labyrinth," he started up again, "will seem as real as the ground beneath your feet now. Pain felt inside will mark your flesh. Wounds will manifest. And if you die within the Labyrinth—well, the mind is not known to survive what it believes is death.”
Beside me, Lance leaned close. “I wonder who will persevere.”
I didn't answer. My thoughts were still tangled around the white-haired girl at the lake. Had she bewitched me? Perhaps she was no specter at all but a practiced witch—an old hag who had taken on the appearance of the most beautiful woman in Logres. Was it possible she was Blodeuwynn? Gods, I hoped not.
"The Labyrinth Trial tests not your magical ability," Mordred continued, his voice unnaturally clear in the still morning air, "but the mind that wields it."
He paced before the concentric circle of monoliths with deliberate control, every movement measured—calculated as his gaze passed over the assembled knights.
