CHAPTER FIVE #3
When our eyes met, I immediately looked away.
On Arthur’s opposite side stood Lord Mordred. He had been Merlin's pupil before Arthur and Merlin had their falling out.
Mordred came from an ancient noble house that had served Logres for generations, and his reputation had traveled farther than any royal decree—even the hidden groves of Annwyn had whispered his name.
His eyes were what froze the blood: one glacial blue, the other pure obsidian with no visible pupil.
Those eyes didn’t look at you—they read you.
Not the surface, but what lay buried beneath it.
His posture was perfect. His frame lean, almost delicate—until he moved. Then came the snap of whipcord strength. Every motion was calculated. Surgical.
The Royal Archmage was infamous throughout the realm for his spells and potions—concoctions that could heal mortal wounds or induce agonizing death.
Unlike those blessed with natural magical gifts flowing through their bloodlines, Mordred possessed something arguably more dangerous: the intellect to craft magic from raw components, to bend arcane forces through sheer will and meticulous study.
Where others channeled power instinctively, he constructed it methodically—each incantation a masterwork, every ritual a symphony.
His magic was artificial, yes, but that made it no less potent.
If anything, his manufactured sorcery carried an edge of unpredictability that even seasoned mages found unsettling.
“The first of the Shadow Trials begins,” he declared, his voice slicing clean through the murmurs of the hall. “The Summoning Trial.”
He paused, letting the silence thicken.
"Every candidate will advance and demonstrate their core magical gift.
Should you fail to summon magic when commanded, you shall be discharged and may depart unharmed.
Upon dismissal, you shall still remain bound by Camelot's statutes and shall refrain from wielding your magic.
Sorcery is permitted solely within Camelot's walls, by the sovereign's decree. "
My mouth went dry.
This was it—the first test.
A ripple moved through the crowd, subtle as wind through grass.
Their faces revealed a spectrum of emotion: fear, curiosity, and barely restrained excitement.
The ladies of the court leaned forward, expressions schooled into proper disdain—magic was taboo, yes, but it was also irresistible.
I also couldn't help but notice how most of the ladies' attention was completely reserved for Lancelot. He didn't appear to notice.
The first candidate stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and anxious eyes.
I didn’t recognize him from any of Merlin’s inked portraits, so I assumed he was not someone of importance.
His hands trembled slightly as he summoned a small flickering ball of flame.
It hovered between his palms, glowing hot and unstable.
A collective intake of breath swept through the observers.
Yet I noticed the King's response—the slightest crease of displeasure across his brow.
I understood why—the magic demonstrated poor discipline.
Focus. Still, magic remained magic, and provided we could manifest it when ordered, it would suffice.
With a polite nod, Mordred dismissed the man, telling him he had passed this first trial. The man bowed stiffly, relief appearing in every hurried step as he retreated.
More knights followed.
One raised pillars of earth that shaped themselves into marching stone soldiers—each one no taller than a goblet, but perfectly formed. Another conjured illusions of mythical beasts—griffins and wyverns prowling the air just above the heads of the assembled court.
Mordred watched impassively and declared both had passed.
But I wasn’t watching the magic alone—I studied the court itself. The nobility played their part, but behind their jeweled masks, the real theater unfolded: subtle glances, whispered judgments, and nods of approval exchanged between allies.
Arthur’s face remained unreadable. But the nobles around him? They were open books—every reaction a paragraph in a story of courtly alliances and power games.
The northern lords—easily marked by their fur-lined cloaks despite the hall’s warmth—leaned forward whenever elemental magic was displayed.
One white-bearded patriarch gave a pleased nod as a frost mage encased his entire body (save for his face) in ice without so much as a wince, then murmured something that made his companions chuckle.
In contrast, the southern houses—draped in lighter fabrics and covered with ornate jewelry—reserved their interest for magic with battlefield potential.
A thin-faced duchess applauded when a knight transformed a wooden staff into a dozen steel arrows, each one thudding into a perfect circle on a distant banner.
The eastern houses presented themselves with an air of exotic allure—dressed in silks dyed to mimic peacock hues and their garments embroidered with gold thread in patterns that dazzled like mosaics.
They watched the proceedings with a mix of detachment and interest. According to Merlin, they had an affinity for illusion magic and artifice.
Each display of visual splendor or feats of cunning held their attention the longest.
Just as a knight made a mirage of himself, splitting into three identical copies to bewilder the rest of us, the eastern nobles leaned toward one another, their eyes full of appreciation.
They sought artistry over raw power—a perception that magic was an extension of the soul's creativity as much as its strength.
To the west sat their counterparts, all bearing expressions of aggressive pragmatism—a sharp-edged economy to every glance and word.
Their attire was far more subdued than the flamboyant east, yet meticulously designed to convey wealth without overt display.
Rich mahoganies and deep forest greens were their palette, reflecting the western wealth rooted in timber and ore.
For them, showiness meant little. Functionality and subtlety held sway. Their conversations, if only captured in snatches of passing observation, were punctuated by gruff cavalier phrases like “versatile” and “strategic.”
I studied them all—their nuances, alliances, the invisible threads weaving through the court tapestry. Each territory wanted to see their own succeed—that was no surprise, for victory here meant victory for their houses, their homelands.
As more knights stepped forward, I continued my assessment—cataloging strengths, flaws, and tells.
Most showed raw talent with little refinement, which made sense.
Magic was outlawed in Logres and had been for many years.
These men had honed their craft in secret, if at all, guided by instinct rather than mentorship.
Throughout the entire trial, I mostly kept my eyes on the king. He didn't reveal much—maybe a slow, approving nod here and a flicker in his jaw there. Otherwise, his face was impassive, his expressions revealing nothing.
But kings have secrets, and thrones cast shadows.