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Chapter Text

At sixteen summers gone by, the King’s approval meant everything to the young Prince of Camelot. That was normal for a noble his age, although it prompted a fear in him not unlike the kind he felt being caught sneaking out to join the commoners’ mid-winter celebrations. That fear, the feeling that Arthur Pendragon would never be good enough, was what eventually led him down this very path.

“Prince Arthur,” King Uther greeted as Arthur entered and bowed. The king was standing at the head of the round table, surrounded by Camelot’s knights and advisors. The maps of the kingdoms were laid out before him, dotted with gold and silver pieces. When he was younger, Arthur would find great joy in playing with those tokens, especially the figures that looked like horses. But now they only represented the forces of his kingdom. Arthur had grown out of playing pretend.

“Your majesty summoned me?” Arthur asked. They usually did away with the formalities in a small audience, but Arthur would not be caught lacking in front of his father’s court. He stood with a stiff spine, watching his father’s brow furrow as he moved one of the markers, a golden man carved with knight’s armour, to another grid on the map of Camelot.

Arthur waited, wondering what his father wanted to speak to him about. Finally, the king deigned to address him, “Arthur, I want you to participate the meeting of the military council today.”

“Father?” Arthur tried to hide his surprise. King Uther had never asked him to be at those biweekly meetings before. As a prince who’d been said to be rather talented, Arthur had a myriad of important duties; he trained most of the guards, mentored the squires, managed the royal lands and even oversaw some agricultural and economic projects. He had even begun leading the council for local disputes, settling all sorts of arguments about boundary disagreements and inheritance claims.

But the military council was big scale. That’s where they would gather to discuss battle plans, alliances, defence strategies – most of the big decisions concerning Camelot’s safety happened during these council meetings, in front of all the court officials and high-ranking knights. It was a big responsibility, but a perfect opportunity to make his father proud. Arthur didn’t hesitate, “I will be there.”

“It’ll be a perfect opportunity for you to observe how best we can protect our kingdom. The perfect learning opportunity,” the king said, barely sparing him a glance.

“I understand.”

The king straightened and looked at Arthur for the first time that day. He nodded approvingly, then dismissed the meeting with a wave of his ring-adorned hand. “That will be all.”

The knights dipped their heads in courteous bows as King Uther strode out of the room, red cloak billowing out behind him. Arthur followed behind him, walking fast to keep up but staying a single step behind, out of respect. The guards stationed outside the council room automatically turned and pulled open the doors in synchronised perfection.

It was busy inside, the room was filled with nobles dressed in their expensive fur-lined cloaks. The Knights of Camelot were there too, excluding the squires and freshly initiated. Everyone bowed as the king and the prince walked past. Arthur took his place to the right of his father’s grand seat with a blank expression.

“You’re so serious,” muttered a voice into his ear. Arthur jerked slightly, catching a glimpse of pale skin and green silk.

“What are you doing here, Morgana?” he hissed under his breath, “this is a council meeting.”

She shrugged. “Uther never cares where I go.”

“You can’t be here,” he hissed at her.

“And why not?”

“You’re a girl. Girls can’t attend war meetings.”

“Yes they can,” she replied crossly, “And I say I’d be much better at it than you.”

“Morgana, get out of—” Uther shot a look their way, cutting off the rest of what Arthur was going to say. He swallowed, getting the hint. But Morgana just smiled cheekily and ducked through a discrete door nearby, disappearing from the scene and making Arthur frown disapprovingly; the king’s ward shouldn’t be using the servant corridors.

King Uther raised his hand for silence. Arthur swallowed again. God, his mouth was so dry. Where was that servant with the water? Arthur looked around and a pageboy stepped forward to offer him the pitcher. Arthur poured a cup and drank his fill of the crisp water, using it to take his mind off the stifling energy in the room as the War Court of Camelot was called to session.

Arthur stifled a yawn. They were halfway through now, yet the discussions didn’t seem to be growing any shorter. This wasn’t going anything like what the young prince had hoped. It was dull. So dull. Duller than a training sword. The only thing that was remotely interesting was one of the reports of a serial killer terrorising some villages. Arthur had perked up, hoping his father would let him take charge of chasing the culprit down. But King Uther had allocated that job to Sir Degore instead.

Then Sir Bertin Alcott stepped forward. He bowed lowly, to King Uther and then to Prince Arthur. “Your Majesty, your Highness” began the knight, “we’ve received word from Lord Alcott in the east, a series of troubling kidnappings.”

Arthur leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Bandits?”

Sir Bertin hesitated, glancing between Arthur and the king. “Not bandits, sire… The reports have been inconsistent.”

King Uther’s patience thinned. “Out with it,” he said sharply.

The knight grimaced, choosing his words carefully. “Apologies, my lord, but witnesses claim that villagers are being taken from their beds at night.”

Arthur frowned, “Has anyone come forward asking for a ransom?”

“That’s the troubling part, sire,” Sir Bertin replied, clearly unsettled. “No one has seen anyone come or go. People are simply vanishing without a trace.”

The weight of the news settled heavily in the room, tension replacing the earlier boredom. Arthur exchanged a quick glance with his father. “What do we know about these attacks?” he pressed. “Are there any patterns? Do the victims have anything in common?”

Sir Bertin pursed his lips into a thin line. “The reports vary, but they all come from smaller villages near the eastern border. Some in Camelot’s lands, some in Essetir. As for the victims, they seem to be random – men, women, and even children. The only consistent detail is that they all disappeared during the night without any sounds of struggle.”

Arthur looked to the king. “Allow me to lead a small party east to uncover what’s happening. We’re able to spare the manpower.”

Uther’s expression was hard to read, as always. His eyes looked over Arthur, measuring his eagerness then flicked away to his audience. “Gaius,” King Uther called. An old man stepped forward from the line of courtly officials as King Uther exhaled slowly, a dark cloud settling over his head. His eyes were dark and cold as he asked, “Could this be the work of a sorcerer?”

The court physician looked uncomfortable and Arthur didn’t blame him. After all it was no secret how much hatred Uther Pendragon had for all things magic. In fact, Uther had on an expression of pure contempt; his brow furrowed so intensely that anyone would have flinched.

Arthur, to his credit, didn’t flinch, but he did grit his teeth as Gaius said, “It is… possible, Your Majesty. But without a first-hand account it would be difficult to prove.”

“If I may, my Lord,” Sir Bertin spoke up, “there is something else.”

Arthur frowned. “What else?”

“A month ago, we received a report that a large, winged creature was seen flying towards Feorre Mountains.”

“Those mountains are just a few days walk from the furthur eastern villages,” Gaius said thoughtfully.

Arthur didn’t know what to make of that. Villagers going missing, and some strange flying beast? Those two things didn’t seem like they were related at all. But… “It can’t be a coincidence that two strange occurrences happened in the same area,” Arthur murmured to his father.

King Uther looked thoughtful. “Any insight, Gaius?”

“I’ll have to consult my books, sire. But based on my knowledge and memory… it could very well be a griffon. They used to run rampant in the high mountains of the east,” Gaius said. “It is said to be about the size of a horse, with a lion’s body and the head of a bird.”

Sir Bertin shifted nervously, which Arthur found odd for a knight so usually firm-standing and confident. “The report claimed— Well, they said it looked like a huge… serpent, my Lord.”

A hush fell over the room, broken only by the sound of Uther slamming his fist against the armrest of his throne. All eyes locked onto the king, but he didn’t say a word, breathing heavily with anger bleeding from every pore.

“What you’re suggesting is difficult to believe, Sir Bertin,” Gaius said after a moment.

“Not just difficult, impossible,” Arthur scoffed, “dragons haven’t been seen since, well, since I was born.” Since the purge.

Sir Bertin just bowed deeply. “It’s what was detailed in the reports, sire.”

Arthur glanced around the room, the murmurs among the nobles stirred a sense of unease in him but he tried hard to maintain his composure. This would be perfect; he would take down a mighty dragon and present its teeth to his father. They would hold a victory feast and invite princesses from Camelot’s allied kingdoms. How proud Uther would be to have a dragon-slayer as his son.

“Surely we can’t dismiss any reason outright.” He glanced at Gaius, seeking support. “If people are disappearing, we must investigate all possible leads, including this creature.”

“Your Majesty, Prince Arthur has a point,” Gaius said, “A swift investigation could prevent further fear from spreading. Whether it proves to be a hoax, or simply the kidnappings by one disturbed individual, is another matter entirely.”

“Father, I’ve handled threats before,” Arthur pressed, trying to keep his tone even. “Whether this is the work of magic, or not, these are our subjects. If there is something dangerous in the eastern villages, we have to do something.”

The king leaned back in his throne. “Very well,” he said, after what felt like an eternity. “You may lead the investigation.”

Arthur’s heart leapt. This was his chance. Fate had dropped the perfect way to prove himself right in Arthur’s lap. He bowed respectfully. “Thank you, Father. I won’t disappoint you.”

Sir Bertin stepped forward again. “If I may suggest, my Lord, we should seek out the witnesses who reported these incidents. They might provide more clarity on what’s been happening.”

“Agreed,” Arthur replied. “We need every detail we can gather. Sir Bertin, can you assist in compiling the reports from the villagers?”

“Of course, my prince,” he said.

King Uther raised his hand once more, “I want all available knights assembled to join this venture. My son, Prince Arthur, will lead this expedition to the Feorre Mountains at first light. Ready your men.”

Arthur felt a swell of pride. “I will see it through personally,” he promised, glancing at the officials present. “We will not rest until we uncover the truth behind these disappearances.”

With that, the king dismissed the council. Nobles began to file out, but Arthur remained deep in thought. Only when he spotted a dark ringlets of hair falling over the frilly collar of a green gown did he jolt out of his own head.

“You were awfully serious in there,” Morgana remarked.

“Were you eavesdropping?” he replied, exasperated.

She feigned innocence. “I was curious.”

Arthur held back a sigh. “So? What do you think?”

“It’s worrisome. I don’t like the idea of you going out there to hunt some unknown, possibly highly aggressive, creature.

“It’s not my first quest!” Arthur said, folding his arms.

“It’s your first one that matters. And it sounds dangerous, Arthur. Let me come with you.”

“Absolutely not, Morgana,” he said firmly.

Defiance flashed in her eyes. “Why not?”

“First of all, Father would never allow it.”

“That’s not fair. I can handle myself better than most men,” Morgana seethed.

She had always been like this – stubborn enough to be Uther’s legitimate child instead of just the ward he took in at ten years old. She was inexplicably handy with a sword, and consistently kept up with him at archery. Plus, she was two years older than Arthur and rode better than him – though he absolutely refused to admit that. Still, Arthur couldn’t help but want to protect her.

“Maybe so,” Arthur conceded, “but you’re still not coming. I won’t risk your safety.”

Morgana’s expression shifted, a mix of annoyance and hurt crossing her features. “So, what? I’m just supposed to wait here and hope you come back in one piece?”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue but paused. “Look, I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Fine,” she finally said, then leaned forward and wrapped him in a quick embrace before hurrying away.

Contrary to the belief of some of the knights, Arthur did realise the seriousness of what they would be doing, venturing into the depths of a forest — unexplored and teeming with bandits — to maybe kill a creature that was potentially so mystical and powerful that they were almost legend. But still, Arthur got ready for the quest, almost shaking with excitement. Or nerves. Either way, he was anticipating an adventure.

One of the servants carried extra equipment on the prince’s behalf: a long-spear, and a crossbow. Arthur had training in pretty much every weapon that Camelot could fit in the armoury but he personally preferred the sword and carried his sheathed on his hip. Not too far ahead, an squire fastened an extra scabbard and sword to the saddle of his horse. The knights waited around attentively, they too were fully covered in steel and carried a variety of both melee and ranged weapons.

Arthur prepared to mount his horse, when a familiar, but not unwelcome, voice called his name. He turned to see Gaius walking towards him, in his slow way that was somehow both dignified and yet elderly. “Gaius? What is it?” Arthur said.

The court physician appraised Arthur with a discerning stare. “Prince Arthur… Do you really think it is wise to go on this expedition?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. It was so typical of the healer to be overly cautious. The man had been treating the royal family since before Arthur could even walk, sometimes Arthur wondered if Gaius even noticed that he was no longer the same boy who he nursed to health when ill.

“I have to,” he said firmly.

Gaius sighed. “You are still young. There will be plenty opportunities to prove yourself, my prince.”

“Not like this, Gaius. When I kill this beast, father will—”

“He will what, sire?” Gaius interrupted with his trademarked look of disapproval. It reminded Arthur of sitting in the healing chambers as the man applied healing poultice on his scraped knees. “Blinding following your father’s footsteps will not determine your worth, Prince Arthur.” Arthur’s jaw set and he mounted his horse in a swift movement. Gaius sighed again. “I see I won’t convince you otherwise.”

“No, you won’t,” Arthur said.

“Then, a word of advice, sire,” he said, “If you really do come across a dragon, keep an open mind. They are not as mindless as many believe them to be.”

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” But the physician had already started walking away, leaving Arthur to dwell on that cryptic message. He took the reins from a stableboy with a curt nod. Hengroen shifted under the new weight, tossing his head as Arthur brought the horse around to join the questing party. Sir Leon glanced at him and Arthur gave the knight a polite nod, half-full of anticipation and half-full of nerves.

“The men are ready, sire.”

“Very good,” Arthur replied. He kicked his horse into motion and the party moved out.

Arthur didn’t know the Forest of Ascetir very well — more of time his time was spent north of the citadel, where game was more plentiful — but it was still a part of Camelot and he had studied maps of his kingdom to the point of memory. The path they had chosen was not used often, but it was the swiftest. It would take them directly to Wealdstone, a mid-sized town which had a greater choice of routes. From there, the king would decide which direction was best. The only trouble was that the journey from Camelot to Wealdstone was infamous for concealing bandit campsites in the heavy underbrush and any time spent dealing with them would increase the chances of more people going missing.

The company marched in silence for hours, deeper into the forest until the sinking sun could barely be seen through the canopy. Only when it was deemed too dark to continue travelling safely, did they stop to make camp. Arthur handed over Hengroen to one of the servants and walked over to his tent, intent on turning in for the night. As Arthur passed by the campfire — where the knights had gathered to eat and rest — he overheard their conversation. Curiosity awakened, he stopped to listen.

The knight that was speaking was someone Arthur didn’t recognise, one of the newer initiates. “It’s odd his highness is entertaining the idea that there are dragons at all. If the purge didn’t wipe them all out, the war certainly did.”

Another knight shrugged. “Who knows what really happened to them.”

Arthur walked up to them. “What do you mean?”

The knight who had spoken jumped to his feet. “Er… Please forgive me, my prince. I meant nothing by it.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “I don’t care about that. What war were you were talking about?”

The men looked at each other, then Sir Cador and Sir Galahad shuffled to make a space between them. “You know about the Great Purge, young prince?”

“Of course,” Arthur scoffed. Then just to prove he did know, he recited, “fifteen years ago my father outlawed the use of magic and the ways of the Old Religion. Those that chose not to obey the law were either executed or banished.”

“Rightly so, they were too dangerous,” one knight muttered while the two eldest of the group shared a look. The way Sir Cador grimaced made Arthur stiffen with indignation. He had sat with tutors since he’d learned to read, he knew his own kingdom’s history. Hell, never mind his royal education, everyone in Camelot did. But they seemed to be hiding some small details from him. He huffed, “Every child in Camelot learns that story.”

“History, sire,” Sir Galahad corrected, “not a story.”

“It doesn’t matter. What does it have to do with the dragons?”

 “Well… part of those that King Uther executed was a group of sorcerers that were said to control the dragons. Dragonlords.”

“What?” Arthur said sharply, “Sorcerers who can control dragons? Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

“It was unknown how true this ability was. Dragonlord culture was a secretive one, and there were so few of them that many didn’t believe they existed in the first place,” Sir Galahad said.

“But their existence was known to the royal family, and a few other noble families.” Sir Cador skewered a piece of rabbit and held it over the fire. “When King Uther outlawed the use of magic and ordered the eradication of all dragons, the Dragonlords were enraged. They believed their connection to the creatures was a divine gift, a sign that they were to be worshiped as gods.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Arthur exclaimed angrily.

“In an act of fury, they used the remaining dragons to burn hundreds of villages. It was destruction like never seen before,” the knight continued, “But the dragons were too wild, too lawless for even the Dragonlords to fully control. The beasts turned their fire against each other. Even their masters.”

“Oh, I know this part,” Sir Kay picked up the story. “The Dragonlords were forced to slaughter their dragons to save their own skin. Without their only weapons, King Uther seized his chance and lead an army against the Dragonlords.”

Arthur looked around at the knights with a frown, “That cannot be a true story.”

 “It cannot be proven or disproven, documentation of the purge is nearly non-existent. None really know how the dragons were wiped out,” Sir Galahad said. Arthur’s ex-mentor had a contemplative look on his face, one that Arthur recognised from his days as a squire. He knew the man was not saying how he truly felt on the subject.

“Come on, tell me what you really think,” he said.

Sir Galahad tilted his head in consideration, “In the village where I grew up, it is said that the Dragonlords were descended from the dragons themselves. Granted the ability to speak in the same tongue, they once loved and honoured the dragons as kin.”

Arthur couldn’t quite understand it. How could one love and honour a species one moment, then destroy them all the next? He sat there for a moment in silence and the knights chuckled at his pensive expression. A servant came over to stoke the fire, prompting Sir Galahad to stand. He patted Arthur firmly on the shoulder. “You should rest, sire. I’ll be taking the first watch.”

“Right,” Arthur murmured, getting to his feet. He walked back to his tent, still mulling over the story the knights had shared. Once free of his chainmail, he dismissed the squire and slipped into his bedroll, letting sleep take hold.

When the party awoke in the morning, the air was crisp and cool. The sun was still low over the horizon, barely having risen. Arthur marched his horse behind his father’s, flanked on either side by flag-bearing knights in Camelot-red cloaks. The party had changed course slightly that morning, riding further into the dense forest. On occasion, Sir Galahad would come up to make conversation with Arthur. They shared pleasant words about the different forms of weaponry and battle strategies. Behind them, the other knights talked among themselves in low voices. At one point Arthur heard Sir Kay laughing and struggled not to turn around to know what was so funny. He tried to maintain his spine-numbing posture — the picture of regality and discipline — but after hours of riding, his thighs ached, and his buttocks began to go numb. Just as he thought he was going to completely lose feeling in his legs, he saw something. Arthur and his men halted, looking around. The sun had passed overhead, and they were near the far boarder of Camelot’s lands. Dismounted his horse, he handed the reigns to his squire.

“Is there trouble, my prince?”

“Ask the men to ready arms,” said Arthur in reply, looking down at something by his boots. Galahad turned and gestured for the knights to prepare. Slowly — and as quietly as they could for men in metal armour — the party of eight knights and five bowmen dismounted and handed off their horses to the servants.

Sir Kay approached them at the front of the party, taking a look at what they had found. “Tracks, sire?”

A footprint was stamped into the ground before them. It was deep, and very big. It was much larger than anything Arthur had been expecting. A fully grown man could curl up comfortably within its perimeter and still have some space. It had an odd shape too, four-toed like a paw but with points like a talon. Nothing that could be compared to the game that Arthur hunted in his spare time.

Sir Kay — always one of the better trackers — squatted down to see it closer. He ran a finger around the edge. “It’s hard to tell how recent this track was since we do not know the size of the beast. But it cannot be more than two days out.”

“We go on foot from here,” Arthur decided reluctantly.

Red cloaks billowing out behind them, the party of knights set off eastward, on the lookout for a huge serpent-like creature. Their party was minimised to the soldiers and the more experienced squires. The few servants they kept around to carry supplies and clean, stayed back at the base. They walked for hours more. Even if there was a dragon, Arthur was prepared for days more of walking until they caught even the slightest whiff of its dwelling. When Arthur spotted a jagged outcrop of mountain rock through the thicket of trees, it was with cautious optimism that he pushed towards it, his chainmail making more noise than he liked. His hunch proved right when he saw the gaping entrance of a cave stretching into the mountain. It was exactly where Arthur imagined a dragon would sleep. He shuddered and peered into the depths of the cave, unable to tell how deep it went.

Arthur was tense with anticipation, wound up so tightly the slightest tap might send him springing up into the air. He turned to return to his men when the ground began to tremble. The sensation sent a tremor from the tips of Arthur’s toes to the top of his scalp.

The ground shook again and Arthur froze. Everyone had felt that one. He could see his Sir Galahad approaching from the corner of his eye, flanked by Sir Kay and Sir Cador.

Sir Kay lips were pressed into a tight line, but his eyes were not on the prince. Arthur followed his gaze to the entrance of the cave. “Prince Arthur,” the knight began carefully, “you should go back to the camp.”

Arthur refused to budge. “I’m not a coward, Sir Kay.”

“N-No, your highness, no one claimed you to be. But you are the prince of Camelot, and the only heir to the throne.”

Then the ground shook again. This time no one missed what caused it. All of the king’s men stared as a long reptilian snout emerged from the darkness of the cave, followed soon by eyes of glittering yellow. Its jaws parted, letting out a billow of smoke, and revealing a set of razor-sharp fangs, stark white against the dark lichen colour of the creature’s scales. It was a dragon and soon, it was entirely out of the cave and Arthur could truly marvel at the sight of such a glorious creature.

“So they do still exist,” he heard Sir Galahad murmur, a hint of reverence in his voice.

There was no way to properly measure the lifespan of a beast so rarely encountered, but Arthur liked to think this dragon was old and wise, well into adulthood but not yet grandfatherly. It towered high above them, but Arthur was sure it was even more impressive with its wings unfurled. The beast lifted another massive claw and Arthur trembled with the earth. He saw the rocks at the dragon’s feet vibrate, looking like grains of sand. It swung its head to the left, fixing on the prince, almost casting an appraising look over him. Arthur stared into the golden eye, awed, and petrified.

Against his better judgement, Arthur raised a hand, about to touch the creature when a furious yell drew him from his fervour. Arthur looked around, the men were taking up arms, storming towards the dragon with cries of war. The young prince fumbled for his sword when an arrow whizzed past him narrowly. It embedded itself in the shoulder of the dragon, and the beast let out a roar so loud the knights felt their bones rattle in their armour.

Arthur was on the ground before he knew it, pain in his side from making contact with the dragon’s powerful tail. He sucked in air, chest tight and body throbbing. All around him, the knights were attacking the dragon with a barrage of steel and arrows. Long-handed spears jabbed towards its face, hoping to catch one of its eyes. Their swords are hacking and slashing across the thick hide of its body but do no perceivable damage.

“Kill the beast!” one of the more excitable knights roared.

Arthur watched with wide eyes as the dragon rocked back on its hind legs, claws slashing through the air. Its wings unfurled, stretching out to the clouds like the beast was doubling in size. The knights cowered in the dragon’s shadow; their swords reduced to nothing but metal sticks. The beast was making a terrifying noise, rumbling from deep in its belly that shook the earth. What was that hellish sound? Arthur’s gaze dropped to the dragon’s chest. Beneath the dark scales that covered it’s breast like chainmail, red began to glow. He realised all at once what the dragon was about to do. Scrambling to his feet, he picked up his sword from where it lay in the dirt.

They had to get away. Now.

“Boy!”

Arthur spun on his heel towards the direction Sir Cador had yelled at. A shivering figure stood before the dragon. Arthur groaned, that stupid squire! Didn’t he know what was about to happen? Cursing loudly, Arthur ran. Not away from the beast, but towards it. The knights were shouting at him, crying out not to throw himself in front of danger.

“Prince Arthur!” his former mentor was yelling, “Stop! Arthur!”

But the young prince didn’t heed his words. The squire was only a few seasons older than himself, and Arthur didn’t want to see him fall to the gruesome fate of being roasted alive. He kept running, until his hand could wrap around the squire’s vambrace. There was a boulder not too far away, barely big enough for the two of them. It was lucky the boy was such a scrawny thing, not yet at the age where muscles bulked easily. Arthur threw him into the dirt and jumped down after him.

And fire exploded behind them.

Chapter Text

The heat was unbearable. The boulder that protected them grew hot under the licks of flame. The dragon swung its neck, raking the fire breath across the clearing, setting shrubs and bushes alight. Sweat trickled down Arthur’s brow and into his eyes. The fire lasted forever. Never before had there been a flame so ferocious.

Just as Arthur thought he might boil alive in his armour, the heat began to subside and the flames wavered, until all at once they went out. Arthur gasped a breath of cool, crisp air. His throat and chest stung. His hair was damp, yet there were ashy patches of black across his armour. The squire at his side let out a moan of fright and Arthur remembered the reason he had put himself in the direct line of fire in the first place.

He rounded on the squire. “Are you a fool?”

“I’m s-sorry, sire.”

“What’s your name?” Arthur asked, his fists clenched at his side. The boy had damn-near got them both killed.

“William, sire, Son of Lord Rulf,” he said, the plates of his armour clanging as he trembled, “I squire for Sir Gareth.”

“Get your head out of the clouds, William,” Arthur snapped.

“Y-yes, your highness.”

With a final scowl, Arthur left the boy trembling in the ashen dirt and peered around the boulder. The blaze of fire had completely stopped, but Arthur was sorely mistaken by thinking the creator of such heat and destruction had stopped with it. The dragon was backed up against the wall of the cliff with its serpentine tail extending to block the mouth of the cave. The knights of Camelot carved their swords through the air. The attack of flame must have worn down the dragon because their swords were starting to have an effect. One knight cleaved his blade through the dragon’s thick hide. Red splattered against the rocks, and the dragon shrieked.

Arthur looked around. Every bush, berry and pebble was coated with ash and soot. Small fires still flickered amongst the foliage of the forest, evidence of the dragon’s ferocious breath. Yet, by some stroke of pure luck, all thirteen of the knights were still there, fighting at full strength.

Sir Kay jogged over to Arthur, huffing. His brow was coated in sweat, running rivulets of soot into his eyes. “Okay, sire?”

“I’m fine. The squire too,” Arthur said. He looked at the dragon as it snarled, curling its lips back against sharp fangs. Arthur didn’t understand. This beast slashed through the air with its foreclaws, knocking the knights aside like chess pieces on a board, yet not once did it land a killing blow. “That’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Well, it’s a dragon. Why hasn’t it used those great big wings yet?”

“Good question,” Sir Kay said with a frown. The dragon was clearly injured now, it was favouring its foreleg on the right, yet the prince could not predict its behaviour at all. If it was anything like the animals he was used to, the injury should mean the dragon either flee or fight more desperately. But it was doing neither. Arthur shifted, readying his sword in hand. The dragon must not be able to fly. Either that or…

“It’s hoard,” Arthur suddenly realised before the dragon let out an earth-shattering roar.

“What did you say, sire?” Sir Kay called over the noise.

“It cannot abandon its hoard!” Yes. That must be it. There was something in the cave that the dragon was protecting. Gold? Jewels? Arthur didn’t know for sure. He stood in place, clenching his sword until his knuckles turned white. As heir to the throne, he had been trained to fight, lead, and hunt since before he could walk. This was no time to show hesitation, especially not in front of his men. This was his moment, if only he could land a solid blow.

He charged into the fray, sliding under its belly while it was distracted by Sir Cador’s attack. The dragon beat its wings, sending dust flying around them. Arthur scrabbled to his feet, twisting just as the dragon’s tail came crashing down where he used to be. He was on the left side of the beast, in a blind spot closer to the mouth of the cave, Sir Galahad was on the right with the rest of the men. Arthur jabbed at the dragon’s hind leg, and it made contact. The gash was barely an inch deep, but it was enough to startle the great creature, and it lifted its claw, forcing it off balance. The prince smiled smugly.

This was it. His chance to prove himself, once and for all.

He raised his sword, high into the air, when all of a sudden, the dragon’s neck swung around, and the young prince found himself staring into a huge golden eye. With a gasp, Arthur was taking a step back before he even realised his feet were moving.

Arthur breathed and the feeling hit him all at once. This was wrong.

His sword arm faltered and then came down to swing at his side uselessly. The fight hadn’t stopped. He could still hear shouting, and the clanging of the knights’ armour, and the singing of swords through the summer heat, but he was in his own pocket of time. Arthur swallowed; his mouth was dry. Had battles always sounded so… violent.

The dragon snarled, smoke billowing out from between its teeth and Arthur realised the precariousness of his position. It wouldn’t take much, one snap of its jaws would kill him, leaving his father without a son, his kingdom without an heir. But for some reason, he didn’t fear for his life. Arthur caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dragon’s golden eye and realised instantly what Gaius had been trying to tell him before they set out. The dragon was not a mindless monster. It wasn’t evil, or even violent. It was intelligent, and it was scared.

They didn’t need to fight; he could convince it to leave. To take whatever possessions it had of its hoard and fly west, where there were more mountains and less people. With his other hand, Arthur reached out, entranced by the magical creature.

The dragon shifted, it’s jaw opening, teeth getting closer to Arthur’s face. His heartbeat soared. He was going to die here. Prince Arthur was going to die at the mercy of this glorious creature.

There was a sickening squelch. Hot, salty blood sprayed across Arthur’s face, and he watched in horror as the dragon gleaming fangs locked split through metal. “Cador!” Sir Galahad roared. Finally, Arthur moved, giving the knight a chance to drag himself to safety. But Arthur felt sick. He pulled his sword and watched blankly as blood dripped into the earth. The dragon’s eyes widened and seemed to glow for a fraction of a second before fading to a muddy yellow. The once-beautiful being collapsed with a ground-shaking thud.

The knights roared in victory, hoisting their weapons into the air. They were tired, covered in dirt and sweat, and their muscles ached, but they hollered their triumph.

Arthur couldn’t join them.

Only moments ago, the dragon had been magnificent. Huge and powerful, with scales that glistened in the sun and a body that could soar over mountains. With a meagre little piece of steel, Arthur had reduced it to nothing more than a token, another trophy for Camelot.

Maybe that should have filled him with pride, god knew his father would be. Instead, Arthur felt as if he had suffered a loss greater than what could be explained. It was like Albion itself had been reduced by the death of this one dragon. He looked around, hoping anyone else would share in his grief. But there was no one.

Sir Cador was bleeding profusely, it looked bad, his armour unsalvageable, but Arthur wasn’t a physician. He could only watch with worry as the squires tended to him. Sir Galahad approached, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. “My prince, we should take one of its horns for mounting. Your father would appreciate it.”

“My father…”

“And there will be a feast the morrow upon your return.”

“No. No feast,” Arthur whispered. But the knight didn’t hear him.

They picked up their weapons and helped their fellow soldiers to their feet. A few were barely conscious, even more were severely burned and clearly fighting back the cries of pain. But they were all eager to get back to where they had set up camp. The servants and horses would be waiting at base with hot food, clean underclothes, and salves to soothe their wounds.

Arthur quietly sheathed his sword. He couldn’t quite stop his gaze from drifting to the slayed dragon, where two men were using some sort of metal device to saw off one of its curled horns. Just looking at it made his riding boots feel like lead. The prince quickly turned his head away, looking anywhere but the corpse. Then, from the corner of his eye, Arthur saw something.

He stopped in his tracks. No one else in the questing party had seemed too interested in the cave yet. Perhaps on the morrow, after they had received medical attention, his father would send a team to excavate whatever treasures the dragon had been hoarding. But for now, no one had spared a glance at the dragon’s dwelling. Arthur looked back at his men, who were mounting his horse, not paying attention to their prince at all, then back at the cave. Arthur was sure he had seen something shift within the shadows. Against his better nature, he took a step towards it.

The cave was pitch black as he peered in, the back wall could be right in front of him, and the prince wouldn’t be able to see it. But there was the slightest draft, and the air wasn’t as stale as Arthur had been expecting, a hint of a much deeper cavern. He took a step past the mouth of the cave, hand feeling blindly in front of him. Shuffling deeper, Arthur realised how this was an extraordinarily dumb idea and was about to turn back when the toe of his foot made contact with something in the dark. Prince Arthur bent down, groping the dirt in front of him until he felt something under his fingers. It was thick and weighted, and seemed to be made of leather. Arthur realised it was a book. He thumbed the pages, unable to see the title or make out the engravings on the cover. What was a book doing on the floor of a cave?

Suddenly, there was the clatter of rocks against each other. Arthur had a hand on his sword hilt in record time. From the depths of the cave, a shadow had moved. There was something else in here with him. And it was coming towards him, slowly and silently with movements that betrayed it as something pretty big. Not as big as the dragon they had slayed perhaps, but larger than Arthur could handle alone. He took a step backwards, and suddenly, his backside was on the floor. He held his sword out in front of him defensively, scrambling back in the dirt, cursing his clumsiness, cursing how his racing heartbeat had made him so weak.

The creature in the cave was closing in on him, Arthur could feel the heat off its body and his breath shuddered. Then, the cave lit up in a dim red glow and the dragon came into Arthur’s view. Like the sun rising from behind the mountains, a beautiful creature of emerald scales. It stared at the Prince with eyes that liquified his resolve and sending his pulse racing. Arthur found himself looking into molten gold captured in a vessel of glass, forever burning.

It was much smaller, clearly younger, with colouring on its scales that looked fresher, neither scarred nor marred by time. It stared at him with an expression that was more human than should have been possible for an animal and the answer hit Arthur. It had never been a hoard of gold in the cave. This was what the dragon had been protecting all along; why it had not flown away. The feeling of ice freezing in his bloodstream multiplied as he realised what the knights had actually done. What he had done.

The young dragon didn’t treat the prince with any sort of hostility, simply staring with those wide glowing eyes, curious and not scared at all. Maybe it hadn’t realised what had happened to its caretaker. Arthur mourned for the dragon and what it would soon learn.

From outside the cave, there was the sound of metal clanging noisily, the knights were looking for their prince. Arthur spun around as they called for him, then immediately realised that he’d turned his back on a predator, something he had been taught never to do. Arthur braced himself for the heat of dragon fire on his back, but it never came. He looked behind him. The dragon was gone. And for some reason, that disappointed Arthur.

He hesitated for a second, then tucked the book under his breastplate, hiding it away, and slowly walked out of the cave.

“I’m here! I’m fine,” he called, approaching the frantic men.

“My prince, what happened?” Sir Galahad asked.

In the face of his ex-mentor’s worry, Arthur resisted the urge to scuff his boot against the sandy floor like a petulant child. “Nothing. We’re leaving.”

Sir Galahad reached up and slapped him lightly on the back of the head.

“Ow!” Arthur looked back at him incredulously. “You’d hit your prince, Sir Galahad?”

“When my prince is being a careless fool, sire” he said back roughly. No other knight would have had the guts to lecture the crown prince of Camelot, but Sir Galahad had known him since before Arthur could wield even a training sword. Arthur scowled angrily, but hadn’t the heart to be truly offended at his ex-mentor’s action.

Arthur bent down to help pick up crossbow bolts, tossing the ones that were deemed too damaged, and felt the edge of the book press into his rib. He straightened, wiggling the book out from under the faulds of his armour.

“Must have been left by one of the victims, sire,” said Sir Kay. Arthur looked over his shoulder at the older man, startled for a moment to realise that the knight had been waiting for him.

In the light of the retreating sun, he could see it properly. It was bound in reddish leather with letters engraved down the spine and cover in gold ink. It looked expensive. And loved. For some reason, Arthur doubted the book had belonged to one of the missing townsfolk. It was precious somehow. He couldn’t tell how yet, but it was. Arthur read the cover, tracing a finger over the worn letters, reading it to himself. The five words seemed so important. The title of the book:

The Once and Future King.

When Arthur and his party entered the gates of the castle courtyard, they were met by King Uther. The torches flickered in the cool evening breeze, casting long shadows across the stone walls of Camelot. Arthur vaulted off Hengroen, his legs aching from the long ride. He passed the reins to the stableboy with a curt nod before approaching to greet his father.

Uther stepped forward, his eyes scanning Arthur with a mixture of pride and scrutiny. He saw the weariness in his son’s posture but said nothing of it. Instead, he clasped Arthur’s arm firmly, a rare gesture of affection. “You did well,” Uther said, his voice a low rumble.

Arthur forced a tired smile, grateful for the praise but too exhausted to offer much in return. He bowed his head. “Thank you, Father,” he replied, his voice thick with fatigue.

Without further conversation, Arthur excused himself, bowing apologetically for his desire to rest. Uther nodded, understanding, and let him go without another word. Arthur made his way to his chambers for much needed respite.

Sir Galahad would be right to say a victory would be in order. When the morning came the next day, the castle would be preparing for a night of revelry and celebration. That thought only just managed to give Arthur the energy to strip off his armour and sink into the steaming bath that awaited him before climbing into bed. He would take all the sleep he could get.

Sure enough, when Arthur walked around the castle the next day, it was alive with activity. Servants were setting the long tables in the main dining chambers with gleaming silverware. One of Morgana’s lady’s maids hurried past, her arms full with swathes of silk and chiffon. The scent of roasting meats filled the air and he could hear the laughter of knights and the chatter of courtiers starting to build.

But Arthur’s heart wasn’t in it. As he wandered through the castle, he picked a flower from a vibrant arrangement outside the banquet hall, a dark-leaved primula with violet-pink petals, and twirled it absently between his fingers. Without fully paying attention, he made his way down to Gaius’s chambers and found himself knocking on the door. The familiar voice of the physician called out from within.

“Come in.”

Pushing the door open, he was greeted by the familiarity of the physician’s quaint workspace. Well-loved books lay open on every visible surface, shelves were filled with potions and remedies. Arthur sneezed. The room smelled of herbs, pungent and earthy, as Gaius ground together something at his mortar station. As Arthur propped up the flower on the table, his eyes drifted to the far side of the room, where a curtain was partially drawn, revealing the feet of a knight lying in bed, still as stone.

“How is he?”

Gaius paused, glancing toward the bed with a tight brow. “Not great, Prince Arthur. The damage from the dragon’s bite was severe. He’s lost a considerable amount of blood.”

 “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” Gaius replied. “I’ve given him Boswellia and white willow bark for the pain, but now it’s up to time to tell.”

Arthur swallowed the bitter lump forming in his throat. It was his fault. He had hesitated and now one of his men might pay the price for it. He met Gaius’s gaze, the old man’s eyes searching his face critically. “You mustn’t blame yourself, sire.”

Arthur gave a stiff nod, his jaw clenched tightly. “If there’s any change, let me know.”

“Of course, Arthur,” Gaius replied, watching as the prince turned to leave.

Arthur lingered outside Gaius’s chambers for a moment longer before exhaling slowly, forcing himself to move. The feast would begin soon, and everyone expected him to be there.

Later that night, when he finally entered the great hall, he was received by a rowdy roar. “There’s the man of the hour! Prince Arthur!” A servant flitted over to pass him a chalice of hot spiced wine. After a second of hesitation, he lifted it to the air and the knights exploded in approval. He spotted Morgana with Lady Wren, her dark hair pinned back with emerald-studded clips, and caught her eye as she laughed. She gave him a slight smile.

He made his way through the room to the royal table, trying to seem unapproachable. But it was no use. He was a prince, and that made him a focal point by nature. Soon enough, courtiers and nobles began to flock to his side, giggling and offering their congratulations on his victory. Arthur nodded along, offering a smile where appropriate.

 “My friends!” Uther’s voice cut through the din. “Tonight, we celebrate a great victory for Camelot! My son, Prince Arthur, and our brave knights have slain a dragon, a creature thought extinct for years. This victory proves once again that Camelot is strong, that we will stand against any threat of magic!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, goblets raised, wine spilling in their excitement. The wine splashed red and Arthur’s stomach turned. He glanced at Morgana again, and this time, she made her way over to him, slipping through the throng of people with an ease that made him frown. The people never parted like that for him. In fact, if the flock of woman who followed him everywhere were any proof, they seemed to do the opposite.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself,” Morgana said quietly as she approached.

Arthur looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes. “Just tired,” he muttered, taking a sip from his goblet.

“Don’t lie to me, Arthur.” Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “Is it about the dragon? What happened? What did you see?”

Arthur hesitated, his fingers tightening around the goblet. For a split second, he considered telling her the truth. About how the dragon was beautiful and intelligent, yet he had still chosen to kill it. Or about its young offspring he had failed to kill, leaving it to fend for itself in a world that hated it.

“It was a dragon, Morgana,” he finally said, “It threatened the peace in Camelot, so we had to slay it. You’re expecting some big story where there is none.”

Morgana let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ve known you all my life, Arthur, certainly well enough to sense you’re hiding something.”

“All you’ve ever known are these four walls. So why don’t you go off and do some embroidery or gossip with the court ladies or whatever else you girls do,” Arthur said nastily.

Her eyes flashed. “You’re such a coward sometimes,” she finally snapped, “Why can’t you just say what you really think for once in your life?”

Arthur clenched his jaw, “I—”

“Arthur,” his father’s called. Exasperated, Morgana turned on her heel and stalked away. Arthur dragged a hand over his face before getting up to take the seat beside his king.

“How do you feel, my son?” Uther asked, leaning close enough so that only Arthur could hear. “It was your first dragon slaying. An accomplishment many only dream of.”

Arthur swallowed the heady taste of the wine that lingered on his tongue. “I feel... honoured,” he said, “But I can’t help but wonder why the dragon emerged after all these years. Dragons have been extinct for as long as I can remember.”

King Uther waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. You slayed the beast, marking a victory for your future kingdom, and now we celebrate.”

“But what if there are more? What if this wasn’t an isolated—”

“There are no more,” Uther said, his voice taking on a hint of warning. “The creature is a beast of a forgotten age. Magic is dying, and soon it will be all be extinguished. Do not waste your time worrying about such things. Focus on your responsibilities as prince.”

Arthur nodded and picked at his food. The pageboy had served him herb and caper crusted sole, one of his favourites. As he lifted a bite to his mouth, a noblewoman from one of the neighbouring lands swooped down beside him. She was draped in a gown of deep burgundy silk. Her golden hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders as she curtsied gracefully.

“Your highness,” she greeted with a voice like honey. “It is an honour to be in the presence of such a brave and noble knight.”

“You are too kind, Lady Wren.”

She wasn’t a stranger to him. They ran into each other in balls and gatherings all across the kingdom and she born the same season as Morgana, so they frequently enjoyed each other’s company.

She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm as she spoke. “Kindness is not enough to express my admiration for your courage. Slaying a dragon, why, such a feat will be spoken of for generations.”

 “I only did what was necessary.” Arthur forced another smile, feeling her fingers brush his sleeve. He glanced at King Uther, who was watching the interaction discretely, under the guise of indifference.

Lady Wren leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper meant for his ears alone. “A hero deserves more than mere praise. Perhaps, after the feast, you could give me a tour of the castle?”

“You’ve been here many times before, Lady Wren,” Arthur reminded, his eyes flickering down to the hand that was inching imperiously close to indecent. He gently removed it and Lady Wren blinked. But she recovered gracefully.

“A dance then,” she said. From somewhere behind them, King Uther cleared his throat quietly. Arthur got the hint.

“Of course, my lady. I look forward to it.”

Satisfied, the noblewoman stepped away and Arthur allowed himself a moment to breathe. “You know, I heard it’s you my younger brother owes his life to. You saved him from dragon fire.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed for a second before he remembered. Lady Wren was the daughter of Lord Rulf. “Squire William? I admit I did not realise he was your brother at the time.”

“Still, my family deeply grateful,” she said, one shoulder lilting up.

Before Arthur could respond, a loud cheer erupted from the other end of the hall as Uther raised his goblet once more. “To my son, the dragonslayer!” The king’s voice boomed. The court responded with raised goblets, their shouts echoing in the grand chamber. Arthur’s hand tightened around the stem of his cup, his knuckles whitening. The word 'dragonslayer' grated against his nerves.

Lady Wren’s voice brought him back again. “You’ve earned it, my prince,” she said softly.

“Thank you, Lady Wren,” he replied. He sipped from his goblet, and let himself fall into the revelry.

In the darkness of nightfall, deep within the forests bordering Camelot, a fortress lay forsaken, a skeleton of what it once was. Crumbling stone towers reached into the sky like the claws of a long-dead beast. Shattered stained-glass windows, once vibrant with scenes of knights and saints, caught the moonlight in eerie splashes of red and green. Damp air clung to the stone like a forgotten memory, heavy with the scent of rot and decay.

To an outsider’s eye, the fortress was nothing more than ruins, left to the ravages of wind and rain. But through Rhys’s eyes, the fortress was different. Not decrepit in any way. The glamour that shrouded it from the outside world was perfect, a spell woven like the vines that crawled over the stone. Inside, the walls were solid, the tapestries still rich with colour, and the floors swept clean save for the small room where Rhys now stood. It was still damp and cold, as it always this deep into the forest, but the roof held fast over their heads and the walls stood tall. The only source of light came from a single stained-glass pane, placed deliberately to allow the moonlight to stream through in a long, narrow beam. Rhys had no doubt the window had been enchanted by his mistress to magnify the moon’s glow. She was responsible for most spell work around the stronghold, including the glamour that hid the life within it.

Rhys’ back was plastered against the cold stone wall, cloaked in shadows. His breath was shallow and he resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot, his heart a nervous drumbeat as he watched the scene unfolding before him. Two figures were meeting in the night, both cloaked in heavy robes. He knew them both, though they were hidden beneath their hoods.

The taller figure knelt on the cold cobbled floor and Rhys had to hold back a little noise of protest. He hadn’t swept the room yet and the dust had made a fine layer on the ground, dirtying his mistress’s dress. She didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Her long dark hair spilled out from beneath her hood, falling like a curtain around her face as she concentrated on the task before her. A silver bowl, intricately carved with runes, sat in front of her. She dipped her fingers into the bowl, swirling the thick, dark liquid with a slow, deliberate motion.

The second figure, approached cautiously. Rhys had attended enough of these meetings to know that everyone who came to see his mistress always behaved in a certain way. Awe, respect, or fear. Or a combination of the three. The fair-haired spy was the same. He moved with a certain wariness, his steps hesitant as he knelt beside their mistress, head bowed. He wasn’t foolish enough to speak until she addressed him, but Rhys could sense the tension radiating from the man.

“My lady,” the man spoke, his voice low and deferential.

“Seith,” the witch replied without looking up. Her voice was like river flow, gentle and beautiful, but capable of drowning even the most capable swimmer. “Assist me.”

Seith obeyed, moving his hands to share the weight of the silver bowl between them. Together, they tipped it, letting the thick liquid spill out slowly into a well that had been carved into the earth. As always, Rhys remained silent. Though his eyes narrowed when Seith’s clumsy movements spilled a few drops onto the floor.

His mistress, however, didn’t seem to care. She pulled a vial from the folds of her dress. The glass was opaque but when she removed the cork, Rhys caught the sharp, metallic scent of blood. She added the contents of the vial to the pool in a slow steady stream and dipped her fingers into the well, rubbing the substance between her fingers to test its consistency.

The silence stretched on, until the witch finally seemed satisfied. “You have come here to say something.”

It wasn’t a question, and neither Seith nor Rhys mistook it as such. Seith flinched, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right response. The witch waited for the man to pluck up his courage, beginning to whisper her spell softly. Seith cleared his throat awkwardly. “We...we have been too conspicuous, my lady.”

The lady stopped incanting. Her hands stilled over the well and Rhys squirmed to see the liquid had stained the skin of her fingertips crimson. The silence in the chamber was deafening, broken only by the faint sound of dripping water somewhere in the distance.

“What I mean to say, my lady,” Seith continued, trying to hide the quiver in his voice, “is that the King of Camelot is starting to take note of our actions. There have been whispers, rumours, about the disappearances. We are lucky they had not investigated any closer, or we could be exposed.”

The witch resumed her spell without a word. She whispered the incantation under her breath, weaving magic through her words, through her breath and bones, through the smallest of veins in the tips of her fingers. Rhys didn’t even have magic of his own, but he could feel the energy thrumming over his skin. The liquid in the well began to glow.

When she finished, she finally spoke with a soft noise of disappointment. “I see you are a coward, Seith. Like all men.” She glanced at him from beneath her hood, her dark eyes gleaming with contempt. Seith’s face turned red, but he didn’t dare speak again. Rhys stayed perfectly still, blending into the shadows as best he could, but he could feel her attention shift to him like a predator’s gaze, subtle but undeniable.

“And yet, though my spies are cowards, Camelot remains blind. Uther hunts for magic like a dog chasing its tail.” She was looking at Rhys as she spoke now, but he knew the witch didn’t actually want a response from him. Rhys was just a servant, after all. He pinched his lips shut. As much as he tried not to, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to the villagers. Their faces lingered in his mind’s eye, though he never knew their names. They were peasants, like him, people whose absence meant nothing. Useful at the time, but disposable, unmemorable. He wasn’t sure what the witch did with them. But for weeks after they were brought to the fortress, there would be… screams.

Rhys glanced over as the spy shifted on his knees, careful not to break his bow. “We retrieved the dragon’s body,” Seith mumbled, as if trying to regain some favour in her eyes. “I-It was a significant risk, but we succeeded.”

“Then there is nothing to fear,” she said thoughtfully, swirling a hand through the well. All three pairs of eyes turned to the bowl to watch as the liquid transformed from sticky, viscous red to an inky black, like onyx taken liquid form.

“It would help, my lady, if we were to know the full extent of these… e-experiments.”

“Seith.” A hint of amusement had crept into her voice. Rhys shivered. Still, the witch said nothing to elaborate. She never did. Rhys had been at her side long enough to learn that much.

The dragon’s corpse now lay in a chamber beneath the fortress, preserved by his mistress’s magic. There had been whispers among the mages, those who worked with the high lady, that she was trying to rekindle something ancient, something lost.

“Do not concern yourself with these minor setbacks,” the witch said, her voice soft but cutting through Rhys’s thoughts like a knife. “By the time Uther and his knights realise what is happening, their precious Camelot will already be undone.”