CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
-ARTHUR-
The Hunt Trial
Dawn broke over Camelot in a golden haze that seemed to bless the proceedings of the Hunt Trial set to begin today.
The Inner Ward of Camelot had been transformed long before I stepped onto the stone terrace overlooking it. Normally, it served as a place of movement—squires ferrying armor, messengers cutting across the yard, guards drilling at dawn. Today, it had been remade into a stage.
Banners bearing the Pendragon sigil hung from the surrounding walls, their crimson cloth stirring faintly in the wind.
The ward itself stretched wide and bright beneath the sun, the packed earth raked smooth for the ceremony.
Along the northern edge, the wooden viewing stands rose in tiered rows, their canopies of dyed linen throwing deep pools of shade.
The highest tier—closest to me—had been reserved for the highborn of Camelot.
They filled the seats with jewels and murmured finery: duchesses with pearl-tipped fans, lords lounging with calculated indifference, and the ever-curious minor nobles leaning forward for a better view.
I could hear them even from here: soft laughter, measured gossip, the brittle clatter of expectation. No one loved a spectacle more than my court.
Below them sat the lesser nobility—knights’ families, wealthy merchants, and visiting dignitaries.
Their benches were closer to the ground, shaded but crowded, all of them eager to watch the opening of the Hunt Trial.
They whispered predictions, argued over wagers, and speculated on which knight would falter first in the haunted wood.
Beyond the stands, the common folk gathered behind rope barriers that formed a wide crescent around the open ground.
They pressed forward for a glimpse of the knights assembling near the gate.
Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders; mothers craned for sight; old men leaned on walking sticks carved with old stories.
Their excitement was louder, unrestrained, a rougher energy that breathed life into the ward.
A raised wooden dais had been built opposite the stands—simple, sturdy, bearing my house colors.
A ceremonial chair sat atop it, nothing like the great throne of the Great Hall but unmistakably royal.
That was my place for the beginning and end of the trial.
To be seen. To be measured. To be obeyed.
The knights stood in formation below, waiting. Steel glinted in the sunlight—polished, prideful, hungry. Squires tightened clasps and checked bowstrings, their nervous movements betraying what the knights themselves would not.
Near the far edge of the ward, where stone and cobble gave way to grass, squires stood in a tight cluster with the knights' horses. They waited at the mouth of the southern gate—the one that opened directly onto the path leading to Thornhallow Forest. Beyond that lay the Whispering Wilds.
Each squire gripped the lead of their knight's mount, steadying the animals against the noise and press of the crowd.
The horses stamped and snorted, their breath visible in the cool morning air.
Some were chargers bred for war, thick-necked and restless.
Others were hunters—lean, alert, their ears pricked forward at every sound.
The gate to Thornhallow Forest loomed open: a dark mouth waiting to swallow every man who crossed its threshold.
Beyond Thornhallow was the haunted domain of the Whispering Wilds, where the hunt would take place.
Too far to reach on foot in the time allowed, the horses were a necessity, not pageantry.
I rested my hands on the parapet, letting my gaze sweep the ward once more. Everything was where it should be: the nobles in their shaded seats, the commoners behind their lines, my knights in formation, my kingdom watching.
The political undercurrents of Camelot’s nobility came into focus and would continue to do so the closer we got to the final trial. Now, excluding this trial, only three remained.
Lord Pellinore stood tall beside his son, fussing over the young man’s cloak with open pride.
The old warrior’s fingers—once deadly with a spear—now smoothed fabric and adjusted clasps.
His bloodline had served the Pendragon throne for generations, and ambition gleamed in his eyes as he whispered last-minute advice to his heir.
“Pellinore’s staking everything on that boy,” I murmured to Lance. “He refused three marriage alliances just to focus on the Trials.”
"For the sake of the disappointed ladies, let's pray they find victory," he chuckled in reply.
Near the eastern gate, the Orkney brothers commanded attention. I had high hopes for Gawain’s earth magic, and Gareth's fire magic was nothing short of impressive.
“The Orkney clan hedges its bets,” Lance observed. “Two sons, two chances at the Round Table.”
“May the best brother win." Then I cocked my head to the side. "Or perhaps they both will?"
Lance nodded as his attention switched to yet another promising candidate. “The eastern houses favor Lamorak,” he continued as we glanced over the ever-gathering crowd.
“And the western lords?” I asked, noting the cluster of nobles near the main gate.
“Divided between the Orkneys and Percival. They're less concerned with ability—more with maintaining old alliances.”
I gave a slight nod. These trials were more than magical contests—they were a bloodless war for influence. The knights who succeeded today would elevate their families for a generation. It was a reshaping of the court’s future.
“And the northern lords?” I asked. “They’ve been quiet lately.”
Lance hesitated. “That’s the curious part. Several have taken a sudden interest in Sir Lioran, despite how little is known about him."
"Yes. Lord Carlisle, in particular.”
Of course, I’d noticed Carlisle’s scrutiny of Lioran.
It disturbed me. The northern houses had long-standing ties to Annwyn—their lands nestled closest to the Standing Stones.
They'd pledged their loyalty to the crown when I'd named Merlin and Annwyn enemies of the court.
.. but such loyalty, so easily offered, was rarely absolute.
I kept my gaze centered on Carlisle, where he sat beside Lady Melisande and Lady Tamsin.
"Carlisle's gathering has grown," I noted, keeping my voice low enough that only Lance would hear.
At The Summoning, it had been only him and Melisande in attendance—two northern representatives maintaining the bare minimum of courtly obligation.
Strategic absence dressed as respectful distance.
But after The Labyrinth, the northern delegation had swelled.
Lady Tamsin arrived first, her sharp features familiar from border negotiations.
Then Brynmor, Carlisle's nephew, a young lord whose father had died under questionable circumstances.
Edwin of Easthollow came next, his irritable disposition preceding him like a herald.
Now two more men sat among them. I didn't recognize either face, but their bearing marked them as northern dignitaries—the careful posture of men accustomed to negotiating from positions of weakness, the watchful eyes that tracked everything and committed it to memory.
"Building a faction," Lance said as he nodded, looking at them.
"Around a knight with no verified lineage." I shifted my weight. "They're either desperately foolish, or they know something we don’t."
"Perhaps they simply wish for a hero for the north, and they see that hero in Lioran?"
"A hero to lead the rebellion," I answered with a clipped nod.
"We have no proof that Carlisle is involved with anything… unsavory."
I looked at Lance. "And yet—what does your gut tell you?"
Lance paused as he studied the man in question. "That he's up to something."
I nodded. "Exactly." Then something more occurred to me. "Do you suppose Lioran would side with Carlisle when push came to shove?" I kept my voice low. "Or would he remain loyal to the crown?"
Lance shifted his weight, considering. "Lioran is still much of an unknown. I'm uncertain where his loyalties lie."
"I share your concerns." I paused, watching the young knight check his weapons across the courtyard. "Though I'll admit, I'm rooting for him."
"I've noticed." Lance's mouth quirked. "From the beginning, actually. Why is that?"
The question caught me off guard, even though I'd asked myself the same thing more than once. I could not fully explain it, but there was something about Lioran that stirred protective instincts within me.
"There's something about him," I said finally. "Something that makes me feel strangely protective towards him."
"Strange you say that." Lance frowned. "I feel the same way. As if Lioran needs protecting, not only from the viciousness of the other knights but—"
"—in general," I finished for him as he nodded. "He just seems… naive, untested, unprepared for the harsh reality of the trials."
"And yet he has persevered." He studied Lioran's distant figure. "Is it his youth? Or perhaps his small stature that makes us feel this way towards him? He almost seems childlike. Feminine, even."
Perhaps that was it. The slender build, the delicate features that seemed out of place among the battle-hardened warriors surrounding him. But no, that wasn't quite it. It was something that ran deeper.
"Perhaps," I conceded. "Or perhaps I feel this way because Lioran reminds me of myself as a much younger man."
Lance raised an eyebrow.
"A young man everyone overlooks," I continued.
"One they don't imagine will persevere. Yet he keeps surprising them when he does.
" I remembered the sneers I'd faced as a boy claiming a throne, the whispers that I'd never hold what I'd won.
"The nobility questioned my right to rule.
They assumed I'd fail at the first true test."
"And you proved them wrong."