CHAPTER NINE
-ARTHUR-
The great hall of Camelot roared with life, a storm of voices, clashing goblets, and the warm glow of firelight trembling along the stone walls.
Long tables stretched from one end of the chamber to the other, crowded with knights still wearing the dust and sweat of training, their laughter ringing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Pitchers of dark, murky ale were passed from hand to hand, the foam sloshing over the rims as men drank deeply, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands before digging into platters of roasted meats.
The ale was thick and malty, brewed in the castle’s own cellars, and it tasted like grain and earth—a drink for men who lived their lives by the sword.
At the high table, servants poured amber mead into polished silver cups. Honey-warm and sweet, its scent—clover, heather, a touch of wildflower—drifted through the hall like a memory of summer.
Wine, deep red and velvety, glimmered in the jeweled goblet set before me. Imported from across the sea, it was a luxury meant to mark occasion, not habit.
Drunken knights hammered the tables in rhythm as a pair of minstrels struck up a lively tune, flutes and lutes weaving through the air like dancing spirits.
The scent of roasted boar and honeycake mingled with the tang of ale-soaked wood, and the entire room pulsed with a wild, celebratory magic—something that had been foreign to Camelot for seven long years.
Serving girls perched on knights' laps, whispering promises behind painted lips. Drink flowed freely, loosening tongues and inhibitions alike.
These men—Camelot’s so-called champions. But were they truly worthy?
I studied their flushed faces, weighing them against the threat gathering beyond our borders. Magic flickered at their fingertips—uncontrolled. Flames danced across knuckles. Goblets hovered in midair. Cheers followed every reckless display.
The only reason the use of magic didn't cause the dragon to stir here and now was due to the wards all along Camelot's borders.
Wards created by Merlin and reinforced by Mordred.
Of course, Mordred didn't know of the existence of the dragon and simply thought he was warding the castle against would-be threats.
But Merlin knew. He'd known from the moment I'd taken the dragonmark from my father.
I shifted, the weight of the crown pressing against my skull. Seven years of vigilance undone in a single night of sanctioned sorcery. The irony did not escape me.
"More wine, Your Majesty?"
A servant girl stood at my side, head bowed, golden-brown hair obscuring her face.
I studied the curve of her neck, the small birthmark beneath her ear.
She looked vaguely familiar. Had I already taken her to my chambers?
Perhaps. Their faces blurred together—temporary distractions from burdens that never lifted, even when I removed the crown.
Her hands trembled as she held the silver pitcher. Not just fear. Anticipation. Hope. Royal favor, a place at court, the status of a king’s bedmate—they all wanted something from me. I’d learned that early.
I waved her off without a word, my eyes locked on the chaos before me.
One knight conjured butterflies of light for a pair of giggling wenches. Another pair tested their strength through magically enhanced arm wrestling. Elemental power flared like festival tricks, with no care for control or consequence.
Madness. All of it.
And yet—what choice did I have?
The dragon was stirring. No doubt, Merlin had somehow reawakened it.
And he was now amassing his forces in Annwyn.
Creatures bound to his will. Forests twisted by his magic.
Realms warped by time. The spies I’d sent to the stones—those few who returned—brought tales that strained belief.
And here I sat, watching half-trained boys flaunt their tricks, hoping they’d stand against the man who once taught me everything I knew.
I hunted witches while Merlin built an army. I executed peasants for healing wounds or predicting rain, while he forged monsters from myth and memory.
The wine curdled in my gut.
"They show promise," Mordred said beside me, his voice smooth as always. His mismatched eyes gleamed with something far too close to delight. "Raw talent—waiting for proper direction."
"Or proper restraint," I replied. "Magic corrupts. You've seen it yourself."
"Our hand has been forced, Majesty. Now we must fight fire with fire."
Mordred understood the need to face Merlin. But he didn't know my real reasons for wanting to do so—my desperate hope that the old wizard would subdue the dragon before it consumed me entirely. Mordred couldn't know because he didn't know about the dragon at all.
As for the reason why I'd outlawed magic seven years ago, Mordred had the intelligence not to ask. When a king gives a command, those who value their necks simply accept it.
I imagined Mordred thought me somewhat mad—outlawing magic, only to turn around and host the Shadow Trials. But he seemed to accept my reasoning: that in order to face Merlin, we had to do so with magic of our own.
It was likely the same with all the knights and the courtiers who sat around me now. They must have thought their king had simply changed his mind—that I was anti-magic for years, only to reverse course once I realized Merlin was building an army of the magically inclined.
They had no idea my decision to ban magic had been to protect them all. Protect them from the thing sleeping inside me.
The dragon stirred at the thought, a lazy unfurling of awareness in the back of my skull.
Hunger, it whispered. So much meat gathered in one place.
I gripped the armrest of my throne until the wood creaked.
"If these trials go awry—" I began.
"—they won’t." Mordred's tone turned sharp as he faced me. "Surely, my king, you haven’t lost your nerve?"
I looked at him and narrowed my eyes. "I’ve lost nothing."
"Good." Polite. Mocking.
I returned my gaze to the candidates—would-be knights, fated fools.
Some buried their hands beneath servant skirts, laughing too loudly, too freely. Others hunched over cards and coins, gambling. In the far corner of the room, palms glowed with careless magic—green sparks, hovering flames.
Not just drunk on mead and ale. Drunk on power.
Just months ago, I’d have had them executed for it.
And now?
Now I expected them to stand with me against Merlin.
The thought of my former mentor sent a familiar heat through me—anger, worn smooth by time but no less potent.
Few remembered how it began—the slow splintering between us.
For years, Merlin stood at my right hand.
His magic paved my path to the throne, even before my father’s death.
Merlin was my greatest asset, dismantling enemies, securing my rule across Logres.
I was young, grateful, idealistic.
But then I began to see what others didn’t—the danger of his unchecked power. Not just to me, but to the realm.
The bard struck up a melody, lute strings vibrating with exaggerated bravado.
"King Arthur of Camelot, the hero Logres sought, who pulled the blade from ancient stone when all the rest could not!
By strength of heart and iron will, he proved to mortal men that destiny had marked his path—and crowned him king again! "
Applause rippled through the hall, the knights roaring with drunken approval. The clinking of flagons against tables formed an impromptu rhythm, though the lyrics grated on my nerves.
Every note felt like the tip of a blade.
"Where tyrants rose and kingdoms fell, his steel refused to bend—A light that cleaved the night in two, a blade all hearts depend!"
The bard's voice leaped, attempting to capture the grandeur of battles long past—skirmishes I could barely remember. Reveling in tales tempered by years, far from the reality I now faced.
The dragonmark flared beneath my tunic, my skin uncomfortably warm. A reminder of commitments made, oaths sworn and broken.
"Through fire, blood, and bitter wrath, his spirit does not bend—A storm that answers cruelty with justice in the end."
The bard's lilt twisted as my patience frayed. I’d heard this story a thousand times, each retelling more fantastic than the last.
"Enough!" I barked sharply.
The bard faltered, voice strangled by interrupted verse. Silence at last.
Conversation ceased abruptly, the clatter of goblets and murmured discussions dying as though snuffed by an invisible hand.
Eyes turned toward me from every corner of the great hall—courtiers pausing mid-sentence, knights lowering their flagons, even the servants freezing in their careful dance between the tables.
The weight of their collective gaze pressed against me, some faces showing startled concern while others bore the careful neutrality of those who had learned to mask their thoughts in my presence.
Even Mordred, with his usual composed detachment, turned his mismatched eyes toward me with what might have been measured curiosity—or perhaps calculation.
His pale fingers remained steady around his wine cup, but I caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze seemed to evaluate both my outburst and the room's reaction to it with equal interest.
It was perhaps a moment or two later that laughter echoed through the hall once more, my outburst forgotten.
Yet, even more unease settled in my gut.
It was a clawing, hungry thing gnawing at the bones of my once-bright convictions.
I remembered a time when magic had felt like a gift—a weapon to wield, a bond between allies.
I thought Merlin and I could build a better world with it.
But power intoxicates. And in its shadow, paranoia takes root.
I watched magic twist good men into monsters. I saw spells turn allies into threats, fire consume villages because one man believed himself a god. The cries of innocents echoed louder than any battle song ever could.