CHAPTER THREE #2
The guards watched us pass with expressions that mixed wariness and grudging respect—the kind of look reserved for those who emerged from the untamed frontier lands bearing the scars and hard-won wisdom of survival.
I kept my posture straight, my gaze forward, playing the part of a northern knight who had little patience for southern formalities and even less interest in lingering where I wasn't welcome.
As we moved away from the guards, I felt the weight of their scrutiny gradually lift from my shoulders. Shade seemed to sense it too, her gait relaxing slightly as we put distance between ourselves and the Hounds.
I scanned the trees ahead more carefully now, searching the shadows between the ancient trunks for any sign of additional patrols.
That was when I saw it, stark against the weathered bark of a particularly gnarled oak.
A piece of parchment fluttered in the gentle breeze, nailed to the tree with an iron spike driven deep into the wood.
The poster's edges were crisp and clean, suggesting it had been posted recently—perhaps even this morning.
I slowed Shade to a walk, then brought her to a complete stop beside the tree. Leaning forward in my saddle, I read the proclamation:
BY DECREE OF KING ARTHUR PENDRAGON
THE SHADOW TRIALS
For the Honor of Camelot and the Defense of the Realm.
Knights of exceptional skill and magical heritage are summoned.
To demonstrate their powers in service to the Crown.
Those chosen shall join the Knights of the Round Table.
Those who fail shall return to their towns, unscathed.
Let all magical sons of Logres answer the call.
I tore it down.
"Sons of Logres," I muttered.
'Unscathed.' As if this wasn’t a trap dressed as an invitation, as Corvin had said. Merlin believed The Shadow Trials to be genuine—that Arthur was seeking magical allies. But what if he was wrong? I supposed I would soon find out.
As for what I believed? I wasn't certain. On the one hand, what better way to flush out magical threats than to invite them willingly into the lion's den? Magic users revealing themselves, their powers laid bare in an arena where they could be cataloged. Neutralized.
Yet, on the other hand, perhaps it was true that Arthur genuinely sought magic users for his court—warriors with abilities that could counter Merlin's own power in the coming conflict.
Whatever Arthur's reasons, I didn't really care.
My mission was clear: infiltrate and report to Merlin.
And if I happened to be in a position where I could neutralize the threat—a position that dictated a swift blade to the king's throat—I would take advantage without regret.
Yes, Merlin would be upset, but no, I didn't care.
All that mattered was that my parents' deaths would not be in vain.
I rolled the parchment and tucked it into my satchel.
The game had begun.
-GUIN-
I pulled Shade to a halt, tethering her to a weathered post.
This was the first town I'd encountered so far in the Northern Territory—Blackwell Keep. I remembered it well.
Yet now, the square felt wrong. There were way too many guards outnumbering the villagers.
In fact, guards flanked every corner, backs straight as blades, eyes like polished stone as they tracked each villager’s movements. Shadows seemed to cling to them, darkening whatever space they occupied.
But it was the bulletin in the center of the square that drew me forward.
What I saw there turned my blood to ice.
A map of villages marked in red. "Cleansed," the legend explained. I found my hometown of Eldenvale instantly—a crimson stain among dozens. I traced the outline with my fingertip, the paper rough against my skin.
I stepped back, jaw tight.
My parents.
The thought of them lodged in my throat like a stone.
There's nothing you can do for them now, Guin, I thought and turned away from the board, heading toward The Wyrm and Whetstone.
Yes, there is something I can do, I thought back. Avenge their deaths on the fucking murderer who killed them.
Almost in response, a ruckus started down the street. I tied Shade to a hitching post just outside the tavern and then turned in the direction of the chaos. Already, a crowd was forming.
I pushed through the crowd, feeling its anxious energy wrapping around me. The villagers had gathered around a makeshift platform in the center of Blackwell Keep. Standing around the platform were a handful of the King's Guard.
As I watched, a guard broke through the crowd, pulling with him a lone figure whose hands were bound. The prisoner's clothes were ragged, stained with mud and sweat, but his stance was unyielding. His eyes blazed with defiance, and something in his expression made me swallow hard.
The chief guard, resplendent in gold and red armor, stepped forward.
His voice carried over the hushed crowd like a pronouncement from the heavens.
“Let it be known: it is not magic that damns you, but disloyalty to the crown.” Then he faced the growing crowd.
"You see before you a member of the rebel movement. This man is an enemy of the crown."
A murmur rippled through the onlookers, some nodding, others paling at the words intended to chill the bone.
The rebel raised his head, catching my gaze. The look in his eyes spoke of things unsaid—a plea, a message, a challenge. It felt like cold steel against my heart, but I couldn’t turn away.
"Fear, not loyalty, holds you in chains!
" he shouted to the audience, his voice hoarse—no doubt from days of captivity yet still carrying the fierce conviction of a man who believed in his cause.
"You are the true lifeblood of this land—farmers, blacksmiths, mothers, fathers—not the nobles who feast while you starve! "
The guard's gauntleted hand clamped down on the rebel's shoulder as he yanked the man forward.
The prisoner stumbled, his bound hands making it impossible to catch his balance, but he managed to stay upright through sheer determination.
The chains around his wrists clinked in the sudden silence that had fallen over the crowd, each metallic note seeming to echo off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings like a death knell.
"Rise up and know what freedom tastes like! Cast off the shackles of this tyrant's reign!" The passion in his voice made something twist painfully in my chest, a recognition of the same fire that burned in my own heart.
The guard’s brows furrowed, displeasure creasing his face. He stepped forward, and when he raised his arm, the meaning was clear. The rebel's chance to speak ended there.
I felt the heat of raw magic spiraling beneath my skin, turbulent and eager for release.
The power coiled and twisted within me, responding to the injustice unfolding before me.
Water magic thrummed through every fiber of my being—I could sense the moisture in the air, the sweat beading on the executioner's brow, even the tears threatening to spill from the eyes of those who dared to care.
How easily I could turn that moisture to ice, freeze the blood in the guard's veins, or summon a mist so thick it would provide the perfect cover for this brave soul's escape.
The temptation was overwhelming, a siren's call that promised swift justice and an end to this terrible spectacle.
My magic yearned to answer the rebel's cry for freedom, to be the instrument that shattered his chains and struck down his oppressors.
But I forced it down, wrestling with the power that threatened to burst from me like water through a cracking dam.
I had to. No matter how my soul screamed in protest, no matter how every instinct demanded I act, I couldn't risk discovery.
I couldn't risk the chance to destroy Arthur's kingdom from the inside out.
My heart ached with the weight of my own silence.
The familiar burn of shame spread through my chest as I stood there, just another face in the crowd, complicit in my inaction.
Revealing myself here might save this one man, but it would doom a whole movement—it would destroy any chance I had of completing my mission, of getting close enough to Arthur to end his reign permanently.
So, I simply turned away and pushed through the throng of onlookers, heading back for the tavern.
I knew what would happen next, and because there was nothing I could do about it, I wouldn't stay to watch.
Whether they hanged him or burned him at the pyre, the end result was the same.
He'd acted out against the king, and he would die for it.
I sighed as I faced The Wyrm and Whetstone. The tavern stood like a memory—once filled with warmth, now hollowed by despair. I approached the weathered door as the sounds of the prisoner's cries were suddenly silenced. I was only too happy to close the heavy oak door against it.
The tavern air hit me in waves—ale and roasted meat layered over sweat and wood smoke. Candles flickered atop a rusted chandelier, while the floorboards beneath my boots complained with age, worn smooth where countless feet had traveled.
Eyes turned to face me. Watching. Judging.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. This wasn't just a tavern. It was theater, and I couldn't afford to miss a line.
The tavern keeper looked up.
She was a tall woman, reaching six feet easily. Her figure was muscular—carved from hard labor and dealing with too many drunks. Red hair, the color of dark wine, was bound back from her face in a low braid that hung thick as a ship's rope down her spine.
Hazel eyes swept over me—not the warm autumn kind, but the cold green-gold of river stones. They held the flat assessment of someone who'd learned to read threats in a glance.
"Horne!" someone in the back called out. "Where's my bloody ale, eh?"