CHAPTER SIXTY #3
Not metaphorically, as men sometimes speak when unleashing their animal nature in passion.
No, this had been a literal transformation—a writhing, rippling change that had coursed across his flesh.
As I watched, Arthur's very essence seemed to alter, his skin taking on a scaled texture that caught the moonlight.
His eyes glowed a strange crimson, and he nearly doubled in size, as impossible as that sounded.
But it was true—proof was in the shreds of his leather braies, which now decorated the ground.
I reached to pick one up, all the while remembering the glimpses of his elongated canines and of fingernails that had extended into something resembling claws.
The dragon mark that covered his chest and back—that elaborate tattoo I had seen countless times in the baths and training grounds—seemed to come alive, writhing and shifting as if the inked beast sought to break free from the confines of mortal flesh.
Of course, I remembered that my father bore the same tattoo.
The elaborate dragon that had decorated Uther's chest and back—identical in every detail to the one Arthur now carried.
I'd always assumed Arthur had taken the mark as some tribute to his predecessor, a visible reminder of the legacy he'd inherited when he'd pulled that damned sword from the stone.
But now, standing in the moonlight with shredded leather in my hand and the lingering scent of sulfur burning my nostrils, I understood there was far more to it than simple homage.
My father's descent into madness flickered through my memory like scenes from a nightmare I'd tried desperately to forget.
The great Uther Pendragon, reduced to a raving lunatic in his final years.
Spitting incomprehensible gibberish, clawing at his own skin as if trying to tear something free from beneath his flesh—a detail I'd dismissed at the time as fever or delirium.
I'd paid little attention then. What son wishes to witness his father's unraveling?
I'd told myself his ravings meant nothing, that age and illness had simply claimed him as they claim all men eventually.
And yet, there had been whispers. Rumors.
Stories. The servants who tended him had spoken in hushed tones of his night terrors, of how he'd torn apart his chambers in fits of rage, leaving claw marks—claw marks—gouged into stone walls.
Claw marks I'd attributed to madness-fueled strength.
Now I wondered if that had been a grave oversight.
Was it possible the same affliction consuming Uther had now taken root in Arthur?
That the tattoo itself was no mere decoration but something far more sinister—a curse, perhaps, or a mark of beastly possession?
The creature I'd glimpsed tonight, the monster Arthur had begun transforming into—had that same beast lived beneath my father's skin, driving him toward eventual insanity?
The questions multiplied in my mind like breeding rats.
How long had Arthur carried this curse? Did anyone else know of it?
Merlin surely must have—the old bastard seemed to have his gnarled fingers in every secret worth knowing.
And if this was hereditary, passed from Uther to Arthur through blood or ritual, what did that mean for the kingdom's future? And what did it mean for me?
I folded the torn leather carefully, tucking the precious evidence into my belt pouch.
As for the beast—his beast—there were far too many questions swirling through my mind like a maelstrom, far too many unknowns for my comfort. Each potential answer I grasped onto seemed to spawn three more mysteries, creating an ever-expanding web that threatened to entangle me completely.
But I would find answers to every single one of my questions. I had to.
My magical sight had always shown me weaknesses—in armor, in walls, in the hearts of men.
Now I turned that same relentless scrutiny toward every detail of what I'd observed tonight, like a scholar dissecting a particularly fascinating corpse: the way Arthur's muscles had begun to reshape themselves beneath his skin, the steam rising off his body, and the smoke in his breath.
The savage hunger that had radiated from him. ..
Whatever dark legacy flowed through Pendragon blood, whatever curse or blessing had marked both father and son, I would uncover its secrets. Not just to unseat Arthur, but to ensure that the same thing—this madness, this lunacy—did not befall me.
A single thread of white upon the ground caught my eye, interrupting my inner musings.
I reached down to retrieve the silken strand, pale as moonlight—her hair.
One perfect strand had escaped to rest on the grass.
I lifted it with the reverence one might show a sacred relic, twining it between my fingers, lifting it to my nose so I could get the scent of her, which of course was impossible with such a small specimen.
Anger flared through me again at the memory of what Elenora had taken from me—the opportunity to claim what should have been mine first. The rage burned hot in my chest, and my jaw clenched so tightly I could hear my teeth grinding together, the sound sharp in the forest stillness.
It was all I could do to calm my own ire, to force the wild beating of my heart back into something resembling normalcy. Deep breaths, measured and controlled. I couldn't afford to let fury cloud my judgment—not when I was so close to having everything I desired within my grasp.
There will be time enough when you have Guinevere's silken cunt wrapped around your cock. And Elenora's too, for that matter.
My lips curved upward as I fully basked in my good luck.
Everything had changed in the span of heartbeats.
Arthur believed himself alone in his transgression, Guinevere in her surrender.
Neither suspected they had performed their dance of desire before an audience.
This knowledge settled into my chest like a key sliding into a lock.
And the fact that Arthur was quite a bit more than he seemed?
That was the icing on the cake—an icing I didn't understand just yet, but I would make it my business to solve that riddle, just as I solved all riddles.
I rose slowly, the strand of the little whore's hair still wound around my finger. The forest watched me with a thousand eyes, but it would keep my secrets—all of them.
My steps back toward Camelot were measured, unhurried. Each footfall seemed to mark time to a new rhythm, a different song than the one I had walked to only that morning. My mind moved like pieces on a chessboard, calculating angles and possibilities.
Tonight, when the castle slept and shadows claimed the corridors, I would visit her cell—not as the dutiful knight offering rescue from her predicament.
And certainly not to extend comfort. I would come as myself—as a man who had witnessed the truth of what lay between king and subject—and I would use her predicament to my advantage.
The thought sent heat spiraling through my groin.
Perhaps she would be receptive. If not, I was unfazed.
There was nothing quite like an unreceptive cunt.
The fight always made the payoff so much better.
Yes, I hoped she would attempt to fight me so I could show her just how much trouble she'd caused me.
As for Elenora threatening me if I were to ever touch the little whore again?
I was not concerned. Not only was Elenora nowhere to be seen or found over the last few days (hopefully, someone had had enough of her and put the bitch to the sword), but I would not be intimidated by a woman.
Yes, Elenora was far more than a mere courtesan—of that, I was certain.
She possessed magic, and I didn't know why she was here or what her interest in Guinevere might be—something I was in the process of uncovering as I unraveled all mysteries.
My smile deepened as Camelot's imposing towers came into view, their banners snapping proudly in the wind.
The familiar sight should have brought me comfort, but tonight it stirred something far more potent—anticipation.
I was not a man who smiled often. Truly, life had not given me many opportunities about which to smile.
But this... this was entirely different. This was a gift wrapped in white hair, presented to me by fortune's own hand. More than one gift, in fact. Each revelation was a weapon I could wield, cutting away at the foundations of power that had always excluded me.
I was eager, thrilled really, to see how this game would unfold, how each player would move when I began pulling the strings from the shadows where I'd learned to thrive.