CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
The chamber door creaked open, revealing a room bathed in darkness.
Only the moonlight filtering through a narrow window offered any light.
Positioned at the center stood the figure of the man I sought—a shadow among ghosts, wrapped in robes dark as night.
Layers of fabric masked his form, every line and edge obscured, his face buried beneath a voluminous cowl.
The air even seemed to cool around him, a reminder that he existed wholly apart from the warmth of the world.
"Your Majesty." His voice, mellow yet commanding, flowed across the room, seeming to echo from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Fox." I stepped further into the chamber, letting the door close behind me.
His voice possessed a strange quality—a layered resonance that made it difficult to discern age, origin, or even gender. Multiple tones wove together, harmonizing in a way that suggested many throats speaking as one. The effect unsettled me, and I had grown accustomed to unsettling things.
It was magic woven into the fabric of his words, designed to strip away every identifying characteristic. Just as he hid his face, he hid his voice. I had permitted this deception because the Fox's results justified his methods, but it grated nonetheless.
"I need you to find someone." I crossed to the window, keeping my back to him. Vulnerability invited exploitation, but the Fox had earned a measure of trust through years of service.
The Fox didn't respond other than to simply nod.
"There is a girl," I continued, my voice devoid of my usual commanding force. Here, masks slipped just as easily as they were donned. "I need her found."
Our treasure, the dragon blared throughout my mind. She belongs to us.
"And the particulars?"
"A servant girl. No older than twenty. Long, silvery-white hair. Small of stature and lithe of build. Violet eyes… Breathtakingly beautiful."
"Where was she last seen?"
"At the stream that feeds the lake, perhaps four or five hours ago." I paused and breathed in deeply. "I need her found posthaste."
Our treasure has been stolen. Taken. Whoever is responsible will burn in dragon fire.
"Very well, my liege," the Fox replied with a nod, the movement almost imperceptible.
All the while, Excalibur's continuous rejection gnawed at me, festering beneath my skin like a splinter. And yet the sword had chosen her—a commoner, a woman, just a slip of a girl.
Ours. How dare she leave us?
"Find her. Swiftly and quietly."
"Naturally," the Fox murmured, each motion as fluid and unobtrusive as his reputation commanded. "If she exists in this world, Your Majesty, she will be found."
Long moments passed before he melded back into the shadows of the room, and I opened the door, walking out.
For all his mystery, the man had never failed me—his track record unmarred by time's passage or the complexities of the tasks I had laid before him.
He succeeded where others routinely failed.
He had better not fail us, the dragon seethed.
He will not, I thought in response.
I returned to the hall while the Fox melted into the tapestry of Camelot's secrets, his movements like whispers carried on the wind.
I spent the rest of the night in restless sleep, dreams dragging me under like a tide I couldn’t fight. Linen sheets twisted around my limbs, suddenly coarse, suffocating.
Each time I drifted off, she returned—that hair, those eyes, and that maddening blend of innocence and defiance. In one dream, she stood before the stone again—not just drawing the sword, but pointing it at me, blade steady, glowing with a light I used to know.
I had woken gasping, my hand reaching instinctively for a sword that was no longer mine.
-ARTHUR-
Dawn found me exhausted. My physician gave me a bitter tonic, but it couldn't flush her from my mind.
I was losing sleep over a servant girl.
A scullery maid.
And yet she’d pulled Excalibur from the stone.
Was she a witch sent by Merlin? Or merely a frightened girl who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was Nimue responsible?
All I knew was that the heat the girl had stirred in me hadn't faded.
After tossing and turning, I'd had to relieve my cock of its weight in the wee hours of the morning, and, of course, I'd imagined her spread out before me.
I'd had to do the same again this morning, before the trial.
And yet, I felt no better—still unsatisfied.
Still angry with myself that I'd had her and yet allowed her to escape.
The early sun hung heavy in the sky, flooding the Castle Green with gold and shadow.
Light spilled across the open grassland, throwing long, dark fingers.
I took my place upon the field throne as the sun broke through Camelot’s morning haze.
The wooden dais beneath me creaked softly as I settled into the high-backed chair—oak carved with the wings of the Pendragon, draped with crimson and gold banners that stirred in the wind.
It was not the throne of the great hall, but it carried its own weight, its own gravity.
A king did not need stone walls to command obedience.
Guards flanked me: two at my back, two at my sides, their armor glinting like shards of captured sunrise.
Beneath the awning stretched above my dais, the air was cooler but still heavy with the scent of trampled grass and anticipation—the kind that ripples through a crowd when judgment is about to fall.
Before me, the Castle Green expanded in a wide arc of close-cut grass, bordered by posts draped with colored ribbons.
At its center lay the Labyrinth—a vast maze formed of thirteen towering megaliths arranged in a perfect ring.
Each stone loomed twenty feet high, joined by a massive slab laid across its shoulders.
Together they shaped a ring of ancient gateways—shadowed alcoves carved by time and intention.
The spaces between them narrowed like corridors, drawing the eye inward toward the circle’s heart.
Behind me, tiered wooden stands rose in a semicircle.
My courtiers filled them in orderly ranks, according to hierarchy.
To my right, the highborn crowded the cushioned benches—dukes, marquesses, my closest advisors—all preening in their jewels and fine fabrics as though their worth depended on how brightly they glittered beneath the sun.
To my left, the lesser lords filled their rows, murmuring among themselves, eager for the spectacle.
Behind them all, ladies of the court clustered like bright-winged birds, their fans fluttering as they whispered gossip about the competitors.
The court carried on with their endless gossiping and whispered machinations, their voices a low hum of anticipation that grated against my already frayed nerves.
Scribes perched at the edges of the stands, quills already scratching notes before the first contestant stepped forward.
The would-be knights stood behind my dais in a curved line of steel, their armor forming a gleaming wall.
I rested my palm on the pommel of the ceremonial sword laid across the small table beside me.
Not Excalibur—never Excalibur—but still a symbol of the crown’s judgment.
The wood beneath my hand hummed faintly, though whether it was my imagination or the dragon buried inside me stirring at the scent of impending combat, I could not say.
The dragon always woke for blood.
My gaze swept the stands, and the courtiers lowered their eyes, as they always did. The wind curled around the dais, tugging at the edges of my cloak.
My mind was not on those surrounding me for long. Of course, it continuously returned to the white-haired woman.
Our treasure.
As with the evening before, much earlier this morning, every servant had been questioned.
One by one, they had stood before me, eyes wide, hands wringing their aprons, trembling as if my gaze alone might condemn them.
The older ones—those who’d served since my father’s reign—seemed especially wary, perhaps sensing something darker stirring beneath my questions.
The kitchen master, so proud of knowing every soul in his domain, had crumbled under my stare, his confidence draining as he admitted ignorance.
Not a soul in Camelot knew of a maid with white hair—none named Elaine and none named Adele. No whispers, no records. The steward's logs showed no recent hires, no granted visitors.
It was as if she’d never existed at all.
A ghost, perhaps. Or worse—a harbinger of the magic I’d spent years trying to purge from this realm.
As with the evening before, every inch of the castle had been searched again at my command—from the highest tower to the lowest cellar. Guards overturned beds, dumped trunks, and emptied wardrobes. Still, no trace. Nothing but silence and the echo of my own obsession.
Had I imagined her?
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.