CHAPTER FOUR #3
But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was the dragon itself. And the changes in my own body that came with its stirring.
I was much quicker to jump to anger now, my temper flaring at the slightest provocation—a servant moving too slowly, a courtier's poorly chosen words, even the sound of footsteps echoing too loudly in the corridors.
My breath steamed even in warm air, dissipating slowly and unnaturally like smoke from a dying fire.
I was certain the servants had begun to notice—I could see them exchanging glances, their eyes darting nervously when they thought I wasn't watching—but they were far too frightened to comment aloud.
Lance had been the only one brave enough to speak of it directly.
He'd told me my eyes would begin to glow red with an inner fire whenever I experienced moments of rage—which were increasing with alarming frequency.
He understood what I was up against because he'd seen the dragon defeat Uther, and I could tell he was worried that the same would happen to me.
He'd never said as much, of course, but I could see the truth in his eyes, all the same.
The walk back through the forest, up the hill and toward Camelot, was a blur.
I barely registered anything other than the sound of my footsteps.
When the castle’s white towers came into view, I straightened—shoulders squared, chin lifted.
The guards at the gate snapped to attention, eyes carefully avoiding mine.
"Your Majesty," they murmured as I passed.
To them—to all of them—I was still the golden king. Regal. Unyielding. The ruler of Logres whose word was law. They would never see the doubt that haunted me at night, the fear that gnawed at my insides like a starving animal.
Only within my private chambers did I allow the mask to slip.
Once inside the castle, I headed for the war room. Then I locked the door, dismissing even my most trusted servants. Alone, I moved to the massive oak table dominating the room. A detailed map of Logres lay beneath heavy glass weights. Red ink scars marked it like wounds.
Each dot—an incident. Some magic and dealt with; others, examples of the rising rebellion.
I uncorked the vermilion ink and added another mark over the northern village of Blackwell Keep—the newest example of The Rebellion working against me.
Fools. If only they knew what they were fighting against—their own demise.
But I could never inform them of as much. No one could find out about the dragon.
My hand trembled. Ink spattered across the map’s clean lines.
“Fuck,” I whispered, staring at my shaking hand. A betrayal. Another crack in my control—of my kingdom, of myself.
I reached for the sealed parchment that had arrived by raven an hour earlier, before I'd opted to seek Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake. The black wax bore the mark of The Fox—my most trusted spy in a network I’d established in the northern borderlands after Merlin's betrayal.
Few even knew of this network; Lance believed I relied solely on official channels. That was how it had to be.
I trusted Lance in most things—truly, he was my closest friend, a brother though not by blood. And yet…
And yet, I trusted no one. I couldn't afford to.
I broke the seal, unfolding the parchment. The cipher—a nursery rhyme Merlin once taught me as a boy—unraveled beneath my eyes, the message appearing between the lines.
The Twilight Sovereign continues to train disciples with exceptional abilities. Training intensifies in the hidden valley beyond the Standing Stones. Elemental magic predominates.
My hand clenched, crumpling the edge of the parchment.
Disciples.
I read on. Each word chilled me further.
Northern villages along the borderlands continue to speak in whispers of the unjust king.
I stared at the line until it blurred.
Then I crossed to the hearth. The fire hissed as I held the parchment to the flames. It curled and blackened, devoured in seconds, leaving only ash smeared against my fingertips. I wiped them clean on my cloak.
For seven years, I had held the uneasy balance with Annwyn—a cold war of spies and shadows.
But this was different.
Merlin wasn't just building defenses; he was preparing an offensive. He was training champions. And now he'd awakened the dragon. It was clear he was seeking my lands. My kingdom.
“He will never fucking have any of it."
We will reduce him to ash.
I stepped to the window. Below me, Camelot stretched beneath the setting sun. The towers burned crimson in the fading light.
“So be it,” I whispered.
Merlin had armed himself with magic, and I was now doing the same.
The Shadow Trials were my answer. Gathering the strongest magic wielders—not to celebrate them, but to control them. To turn their power against my enemies. To squash The Rebellion and bring Merlin to his knees.
Excalibur might reject me now, but that would change. Once Merlin fell. Once Annwyn bent the knee. Then—only then—could I ease the iron grip I’d forged around Logres.
But not before.
“Let Merlin send his champion,” I murmured, turning back to face the dying embers of the fire in the hearth. “I’ll meet him with champions of my own.”