CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX #2
Ah, so that was the reason he'd taken me under his wing—because he wanted to learn more about my power—the same magic that ran in the veins of the woman who had pulled his sword. I should have presumed as much.
As long as he hadn't bridged the fact that that woman was me and I was she, I was safe. At least, for the time being.
"From today forward, you’ll train directly under me,” he continued, reaching for one of the practice blades. “You showed creativity—in the Labyrinth and the Duel. Let’s see if that creativity carries over to your swordwork.”
He tossed the sword to me. I caught it by the hilt. While the sword was just as heavy as a regular blade, the edge was blunt, so one could strike without slicing flesh. Of course, it would still hurt, bruise, or crack ribs—but it was not as sharp as an actual sword.
We began to circle each other on the flagstones, our boots scraping against the stone in a familiar dance.
A rhythm built quickly between us—strike, feint, adjust, retreat.
My blade met his in a series of controlled clashes that rang out across the empty training grounds, echoing off the castle walls.
Soon, my muscles burned with the effort of keeping pace with him, and sweat gathered beneath my tunic, dampening the fabric against my skin.
My breathing grew labored, my arms trembling slightly with each parry.
Arthur, meanwhile, moved with the tireless precision of a man shaped by decades of war.
His movements were economical and efficient, each strike calculated to test my defenses without overwhelming me entirely.
There was no wasted motion in his footwork, no unnecessary flourish in his technique.
He barely seemed to break a sweat, his breathing steady and controlled even as he pressed his advantage.
Years of combat had honed him into something more machine than man when he held a blade—relentless, inexorable, utterly focused.
“Again,” he ordered. “Redirect—don’t block.”
I adjusted my stance, feeling the familiar burn in my calves as I pivoted on the balls of my feet.
“You oppose force with force. Unlearn that.”
I nodded as his blade swept toward my shoulder in a controlled arc, the practice steel catching the light as it descended.
Instead of meeting it head-on with my own weapon, I forced myself to follow his instruction and allowed the momentum of his strike to guide my movement, stepping into the flow of his attack rather than clashing against it.
My sword moved fluidly, redirecting his blade's path rather than stopping it cold, the impact traveling through my arms as gentle pressure instead of the bone-jarring shock I'd grown accustomed to.
“Better,” he said, a flicker of approval in his tone.
"But like this." Then he stepped forward, wrapped his hand around mine, and guided the motion.
The warmth of his skin sent a jolt through me—a current that raced from my hand to somewhere deeper.
I held my breath, painfully aware of how close he stood, of the scent of leather and steel and sun-warmed stone.
Control yourself.
"You've heard of the rebellion," Arthur said as he stepped back from me, retrieving his sword once more. Not a question—a statement delivered with the casual certainty of a king who already knew the answer.
My stomach dropped for the second time in the last hour. And, of course, I understood immediately what he was doing—testing me. Pushing to see how much I knew, how I'd react.
"Yes, I have heard of the rebellion, Your Majesty." I kept my tone neutral, curious. Nothing more.
His eyes tracked my expression. "The incidents have taken place mostly in the north."
"Yes," I answered.
"I noticed Lord Carlisle inviting you to his table. At the feast after the duel."
There it was. The real reason for this conversation.
"He did, sire."
"Carlisle has been a thorn in my side for years." Arthur's voice hardened, each word carrying the weight of old wounds and fresh suspicions. "I don't trust the man. His loyalty shifts like sand beneath the tides."
I said nothing, waiting, allowing him to fill the silence.
"The North has always been troublesome," he continued, circling me slowly, his practice blade resting against his shoulder. "They cling to old grievances, old ways. They see rebellion as their birthright rather than treason."
My jaw tightened slightly—an instinctive reaction I couldn't quite suppress. He was talking about my home, the people I'd grown up among. People who had legitimate reasons to distrust a king who'd outlawed the magic that ran through their blood.
"There may come a day," Arthur said, stopping directly in front of me. I forced myself to meet his eyes, to school my expression. I wasn't certain if I succeeded. Arthur stopped talking for a moment or two and just held my gaze.
"A day, sire?"
He nodded. "When Carlisle or someone similar tests your dedication to your king." His blue eyes locked onto mine with such weight that I stopped breathing for a second or more. "When they offer you promises of power, of recognition, of belonging."
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the silver threading through the darker strands near his temples, the small scar beneath his left eye.
"I hope," he said quietly, "that you'll make the right decision when the time comes, Lioran."
The unspoken threat hung between us, heavy as iron. Choose me. Or face the consequences.
"My loyalty is to the crown, Your Majesty." The lie tasted like acid on my tongue, but I delivered it with Lioran's unwavering confidence. "Whatever Lord Carlisle may offer will never compare to the honor you've shown me."
"Very good, Lioran," Arthur said as he shrugged off the intense expression he'd just been wearing and started to instruct me once again. "Did you feel the transfer of weight just then?” he asked, motioning to my legs. “Just as water flows around obstacles, your swordplay should do the same.”
That stopped me. Merlin had once said the exact same thing.
Had Arthur taught him as much? Or had Merlin taught Arthur?
“Tomorrow,” Arthur continued, releasing me, “we’ll work on your footwork and your overall movement." He paused for a moment. "It is fairly clear that you have received much magical tutelage but little actual swordsplay."
And that was true—because Merlin was hardly a warrior. And though Corvin certainly was, I'd only gotten so much practice time with him, owing to all the other students he had to train.
“These techniques,” I ventured, wanting to better understand the warrior side of the man, “they seem... uniquely adapted to my small frame?”
Arthur’s expression darkened slightly. “They are,” he said. “I developed them for someone who was built like you: lithe. Though he was much taller.”
He turned, sheathing his sword harder than necessary.
"Oh?"
He nodded when he turned back to face me. “Someone who once stood at my side. Who I thought always would.”
There was pain there. Old, sharp, and still lurking.
“Another knight?”
His answer was almost a whisper. “No. Not a knight. Someone who chose a different path.”
He turned away, but I caught the name that slipped from his lips like a curse.
“Merlin.”
By the time I made my way to the Great Hall for supper, I was exhausted. A storm had begun earlier and now raged in full. Rain lashed the high windows. Thunder rolled across the towers. I felt every drop like a pulse against my skin, my magic aching to answer the storm’s call.
As I picked at the mostly untouched plate before me, my mind drifted back to the dream that had been haunting me repeatedly—Arthur taking me atop one of the tombs, then calling to the long-dead kings.
How was it possible that I had dreamed of Arthur's dragon tattoo long before I ever saw it on his chest?
How could I have dreamed of it before knowing it existed?
I tried to dismiss the thoughts, but they clung stubbornly.
Was it merely a coincidence that I'd dreamed of Arthur having a tattoo?
I wanted to believe as much, to dismiss the dream as nothing more than a flicker of imagination.
But the truth buzzed beneath my denial like a thunderous echo.
It couldn't have been coincidence. Not when the tattoo in my dream was identical to the real-life version.
The thought settled in my mind like an unwelcome guest, perched with heavy implications. It wasn't within my magic's grasp to foresee such things—not without tapping into something... more. Foresight belonged to seers, not to me. Yet, the image had come to me all the same.
Maybe it’s nothing, I thought, trying to breathe logic into the chaos spiraling within. Not everything holds deeper meaning, does it?
The storm outside danced against the castle walls, and I felt the pull of the rain, a steady thrumming within me that made me want to go outside and revel in it.
Go to the lake.
The thought rose up in my mind unbidden.
Claim what is rightly yours. Excalibur.
It was the Lady of the Lake's voice in my thoughts—not for the first time.
I immediately clenched my eyes shut tightly and forced her out of my head.
My grip tightened around the goblet in my hand, the cool metal grounding me in the here and now.
I couldn't think of that… problem now. Not when so many other issues were taking precedence.
Like the dragon tattoo on Arthur's chest that I had dreamed of weeks before.
It wasn't so much the tattoo that was bothering me, but what it represented.
Because if the dream actually wasn't a dream at all, but a vision—if I'd somehow seen a sliver of the future in my mind's eye, then…
the dead kings… the sword through my chest…
No. I could not think about such things!