CHAPTER THIRTEEN #3
Still, doubt lingered. If I hadn't dreamed her, was she a specter, bound to Camelot’s stones by some ancient curse?
Or just the product of exhaustion and power too long held with clenched fists?
Perhaps she was a vision brought on by the delirium of the Dragonmark.
Was this yet another sign that I was following in the footsteps of Uther and that the dragon would soon defeat me, just as it had him?
But no, the dragon was just as taken with her as I was.
Hair like starlight, falling to her waist in white waves. Eyes that held the lake’s depth—and something deeper still.
Eyes that knew too much.
Eyes that had seen me.
Even now, I couldn’t banish her from my thoughts. And not far beyond thoughts of her were thoughts of what she'd done. What I'd witnessed her doing.
Pulling my sword from the stone.
No struggle. No effort. Just… release.
The blade—my blade, the symbol of my right to rule—had surrendered to her as if it had been waiting for her all along. As if I had merely been holding her place.
“Your Majesty?” Mordred’s voice snapped me back to the reality unfolding before me.
He stood inside the stone circle, now flanked by the candidates. When they had moved from behind me, I didn't know. A silver chalice rested beside him. The morning sun caught the streak in his black hair, and runes shimmered across his ceremonial robes. He raised his hands, and the circle quieted.
Despite myself, I felt that old, familiar tension creeping up my spine every time his eyes found mine—that unnerving combination of piercing blue and bottomless obsidian, as though he looked through me, not at me.
Seven years of uneasy alliance, seven years with Mordred as my Royal Archmage, and still I couldn't bring myself to fully trust the man who had replaced Merlin.
Maybe it was the shadow of his former master that clung to him like an invisible cloak. Or maybe it was simply the truth every king knows deep in his bones—any man with power is a threat, no matter how loyal he claims to be.
But Mordred had served me well. That much was indisputable. Yet every precise movement, every potion, every spell echoed memories of Merlin in his final days—his calm, his cunning, his dangerous restraint.
I shifted on my throne, the crown pressing heavily against my brow. How many nights had I stared at the ceiling, wondering if Mordred still spoke with his master in secret? If his loyalty belonged to me…
But doubts are luxuries kings cannot afford. I’d learned that lesson too well. Necessary evils must be embraced. Sometimes you must hold close what you fear… in order to control what you cannot destroy.
The Labyrinth—Mordred’s crowning creation—seemed alive with ancient power.
Each stone had been enchanted by Mordred himself, designed to reveal each knight's innermost fears and darkest secrets.
Even from my vantage point, I could feel the raw power emanating from the maze, a testament to both Mordred's skill and the old magic that still lingered in the bones of Logres.
"Begin," I said, my voice cutting across the stillness.
Mordred lifted the chalice, reverent and measured.
“Each of you will drink from the chalice,” he announced.
“Once you do, your bodies will remain here—but your minds will enter the Labyrinth.” He paused—no doubt for dramatic effect.
"What you face within the Labyrinth," he started up again, "will seem as real as the ground beneath your feet now. Pain felt inside will mark your flesh. Wounds will manifest. And if you die within the Labyrinth—well, the mind is not known to survive what it believes is death.”
Beside me, Lance leaned close. “I wonder who will persevere.”
I didn't answer. My thoughts were still tangled around the white-haired girl at the lake.
Had she bewitched me? Perhaps she was no specter at all but a practiced witch—an old hag who had taken on the appearance of the most beautiful woman in Logres.
Was it possible she was Blodeuwynn? Gods, I hoped not.
"The Labyrinth Trial tests not your magical ability," Mordred continued, his voice unnaturally clear in the still morning air, "but the mind that wields it."
He paced before the concentric circle of monoliths with deliberate control, every movement measured—calculated as his gaze passed over the assembled knights.
"What you face within will be shaped by your own weaknesses: your fears, your guilt, your fury, your shame. Some are common to all men—others deeply personal. Victory lies not in brute force, but in mastery of self."
The court fell still as he continued.
"The mind is a labyrinth in its own right—filled with shadows we deny.
Today, you face those shadows. Some of you will emerge transformed.
Others will never return." He turned slowly, giving a meaningful glance across the stands.
"Revelation is not condemnation. But failure to understand your darkness… will destroy you."
Beside me, Lance leaned in. "Bloody hell, he’s tedious."
I gave a tight nod. "Far too tedious."
I cleared my throat—loudly. Mordred glanced at me. I met his gaze and rolled my hand in a curt, unmistakable gesture: Get on with it.
Mordred's lips thinned into a barely perceptible frown, the only outward sign of his displeasure at being rushed.
Nevertheless, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment and quickened his delivery, much to my relief.
The sooner we moved past the theatrics and into the actual trial, the better.
It was not long before my thoughts wandered.
Back to white hair. Violet eyes.
Perhaps we’d missed something. Perhaps I should order another search of the castle as soon as the trial finished? Or better yet—search myself?
Yes. Maybe this time I’d find her.
But then the ridiculousness of the thought took hold of me like a physical blow, settling heavily in my chest. Camelot was massive—a sprawling fortress with countless chambers, hidden passages, servant quarters tucked into forgotten corners, and wing upon wing of corridors that even I hadn't fully explored in my years of rule.
The sheer scope of it made my jaw clench with frustration.
There was no way I could search the entirety myself, not without abandoning my duties for weeks on end.
And to force the guards to search again, to demand they turn over every stone they'd already examined twice, to interview the servants once more with increasingly desperate questions—it would cause far too much suspicion regarding the legitimacy of my sanity.
Already I could imagine the whispers that would follow such an order.
The King grows obsessed with phantoms. Arthur sees enemies in shadows.
Perhaps the crown weighs too heavily upon his mind, as it did with his father.
The thought of such gossip spreading through my court made my hands tighten into fists. I had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let rumors of madness undermine everything I'd built.
She must be found, the dragon insisted.
One by one, the candidates stepped forward. Faces set in grim determination, they drank from Mordred's chalice. Then each approached a different archway. Some hesitated. Others masked their fear behind bravado. The moment they crossed the threshold, the archways reacted with a hushed exhale.
From the outside of the Labyrinth, it appeared as nothing more than a solemn circle of ancient monoliths.
But crossing the threshold under each archway revealed the deception—inside, the stones staggered in jagged, deliberate patterns, forming a maze that coiled inward like a trap.
Each alcove led to another passage, each turn folding deeper into the heart of the circle where magic gathered like breath held too long.
Inside, the maze would become personal. Mordred’s magic tailored each corridor to the knight’s own mind.
There, they would face manifestations of private terrors—childhood monsters, betrayal, shame, failure.
The Labyrinth would not simply test their strength but their souls. And the walls… the walls listened.
Victory wasn’t about reaching the center. It was about endurance, control, and mastery of self when every shadow whispered lies and truths in equal measure.
"The Labyrinth reveals each knight's darkest weaknesses—faults within themselves that could destroy them. Weaknesses that must be weeded out," Mordred said quietly to the court behind us, his strange eyes glowing faintly. "Some will find glory. Others… will not."
A ripple of whispers sounded from the court—sharp intakes of breath, excited murmurs, scandalized gasps.
The nobility always relished spectacle, especially when it involved the public unraveling of a knight’s dignity.
I could feel their anticipation pressing against my back like the weight of my crown.