CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN #3
Mordred stood at the altar, presiding with his usual unsettling authority.
He moved like smoke—graceful, calculating, and always watching.
His mismatched eyes slid across the assembly, seeing more than anyone realized.
Occasionally, I felt his gaze graze my own—a silent acknowledgment.
He, too, was here to uncover truths and to ensure that none escaped.
As the knights formed a ring around the altar, Mordred raised a hand, and all quieted.
"The Riddle of Blood reveals what flows within you," he began, his voice echoing along the stone walls.
"Not merely your magical affinity, but its origin…
and its truth. Some of you will discover ancestors whose gifts you carry unknowingly.
Others will find your power thinner than you believed.
But all will be seen—your family histories as well as the secrets you keep close. "
He moved slowly around the circle, his footsteps eerily silent on the ancient stone.
"This ritual requires three things: blood freely given, truth openly acknowledged, and potential willingly embraced."
The words sent a shiver through the room.
"This is not a test of strength. It is a reckoning. The magic in your blood connects you to those who came before—some celebrated, others forgotten." He paused. "Any truths you hide will now be known."
Once the blood flowed, there would be no going back.
Mordred gestured to the wall carvings surrounding us, their ancient symbols and flowing script covering nearly every inch of stone.
“The Hall of Lineages has recorded bloodlines for centuries. Today, your lines will either join these honored ancestors, their essence immortalized in stone for generations to come…” He paused then, his voice lowering to a solemn cadence.
“Or you will be found unworthy—and returned home.”
Or imprisoned, depending on what we find, I thought, keeping my expression carefully neutral. Anyone guilty of treachery would receive their just punishments.
The unspoken threat hung in the air. This was not just a ceremony—it was surveillance, protection, stability. The future of Camelot depended on what would be revealed here.
Mordred motioned for the first candidate to step forward—a nervous young knight named Sir Eamon, whose trembling hands betrayed his composure. He approached the altar haltingly and accepted the ritual dagger with something between reverence and dread.
He drew the dagger across his palm. The blood didn't pool but flowed eagerly into the silver channels carved into the altar—guided by magic older than language. It moved not aimlessly, but with purpose, as if the altar itself thirsted for his truth.
“Blood of my blood, Power of my line, Reveal what flows through me— What magic is mine. From roots to branches, From source to stream, Show me the truth that lies between.”
The incantation hung in the air. As his voice echoed through the chamber, I felt the floor beneath my feet vibrate faintly—a subterranean hum, as if the heart of the stone itself was responding.
With each drop of his blood that flowed into the altar, the chamber seemed to tighten with anticipation. Would this knight prove worthy? Would his blood strengthen Camelot… or would it expose his weaknesses? His mistruths? His designs against his king?
The blood gathered at the center of the altar, where a ceremonial chalice awaited.
As it filled, the liquid shimmered—no longer red, but iridescent, hues of violet, gold, and crimson swirling like oil on water.
Mordred began to chant, his words not in the common tongue, but in the language of blood itself—guttural, ancient, and vibrating with restrained power.
Then the blood lifted.
It rose in a column from the chalice, swirling upward until it formed a vertical, gleaming mirror. Gasps echoed from the ring of knights as reflections danced on its surface—not of the knight himself, but of his lineage.
A woman appeared first—elegant and wild-eyed, summoning storms with gestures, her hair writhing like lightning. Then a man clad in scorched armor, fire swirling at his fingertips like serpents of flame. One by one, the figures emerged, spectral ancestors carved into memory.
The images merged into a family tree, suspended in the air, each glowing branch a thread of blood magic connecting past to present.
Some glowed with the brilliance of raw, ancient power.
Others flickered faintly, echoes of once-great lines now fading.
The truth was unavoidable, undeniable, and completely exposed.
Then came the final test.
Mordred raised his hand, and the blood mirror shimmered outward into a doorway—a conjured plane through which the candidate would soon walk, and all his secrets would be laid bare.
Sir Eamon hesitated, his breath hitching. The chamber fell silent.
His gaze lingered on the figures floating before him—his inheritance made manifest. I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. I imagined many would falter at this final moment—when truth and lies were revealed.
If he stepped through the doorway, he would emerge altered—empowered or diminished, depending on what lay dormant within him. If he turned away, he would forfeit his chance at knighthood—and carry that shame for the rest of his days.
This moment… this breath… separated those who belonged to Camelot from those who simply served it.
The knight took a deep breath, stepping toward the swirling visage that mirrored his deepest self. I held my breath with him, feeling the weight of every ancestor's gaze pressing down on us all.
"Embrace your truth and your lies!" Mordred’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, slicing through the hush like a drawn blade.
The knight hesitated—a single heartbeat—and then set his jaw with the kind of resolve I recognized from my own youth. With the steadiness of a warrior and the desperation of a man who had everything to prove, he stepped forward.
As he crossed the threshold, his body dissolved into a kaleidoscope of light—colors roiling and churning like storm-swept seas. The air trembled. For a moment, it seemed he might disappear entirely.
Then the air shimmered, transforming into a tapestry of secrets revealing themselves before us. I watched intently as visions of his life danced in the air, small truths exposed in quiet vulnerability.
Through the spectral light, I glimpsed him as a younger man.
Snuggled behind a hay bale, he was trying to catch the attention of a young lady.
She giggled at his antics, tossing her sunlit hair as his cheeks flushed with youthful infatuation.
A harmless crush… yet not without its sting to youthful pride.
That vision faded, and another took its place—this one just as inconsequential as the first—an image of Sir Eamon again as a younger man gone hunting when he was supposed to be doing his lessons.
Visions continued to reveal themselves—all innocent and all boring. No insidious plots, no hidden vendettas—only the charming follies of youth and the everyday behaviors that defined him and marked his existence.
Sir Eamon's essence solidified as the magic ebbed. He took a steadying breath, reemerging at the altar, his expression slightly dazed yet unburdened. The vision dissipated, and his gaze met mine. I offered him a nod, acknowledging the silent passage he’d crossed into acceptance.
Mordred gestured for Sir Eamon to step aside, leaving the altar barren for the next candidate to take his place—ready for the next unveiling beneath the carved pediments of secrets and truth.
One by one, the candidates stepped forward.
Some passed the trial with ease, their magic swelling like tidewaters drawn to the moon.
Others faltered—one knight collapsing in pain as shadows twisted around him, his blood rejecting the altar's truth. He stumbled back, hollow-eyed, the illusion of nobility stripped away by the spell’s cruel honesty—his lineage was a sham.
Of course, he had not failed the trial simply because he came from nothing.
It was that he’d lied—that he’d pretended to be descended from a great and noble Western house.
I could not allow those who would lie to me through their teeth to sit at the Round Table.
No, I required knights I could trust. And this young man was not among them.
Not all were fated to greatness. Not all were even what they claimed to be. The chamber buzzed with whispers, a low current of awe and unease.