Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

ARTHUR

I found myself standing on a narrow, rocky outcropping, the slate-gray sea churning far below. The sky above was a swirling mass of charcoal clouds, shot through with streaks of crimson that looked disturbingly like blood. A chill wind whipped at my hair and clothes, carrying with it the acrid scent of smoke and decay.

In the distance, the jagged silhouette of a ruined castle perched atop a lonely cliff rose from the horizon, its crumbling towers stark against the leaden sky. A sense of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach.

The cawing of crows echoed across the barren landscape, a harsh, grating sound that set my teeth on edge. They circled overhead in a seething mass of black wings and glittering eyes, their raucous cries seeming to mock the desolation below.

I took a step forward, my boots crunching on the loose shale. The wind picked up, howling mournfully as it tore at my cloak and sent pebbles skittering across the uneven ground. I shivered, hugging my arms to my chest as I tried to make sense of my surroundings.

"Admiring the view, sister?" a voice purred from behind me, dripping with malice and dark amusement.

I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat as I came face to face with Mordred. She stood a few paces away, her fiery hair whipping around her face and her emerald eyes glinting with a feverish light. Her lips curved into a cruel smile, revealing a flash of white teeth.

"Mordred," I breathed, squaring my shoulders. My hand instinctively reached for Excalibur, only to realize that in whatever dream-state this was, I no longer had my sword.

The cawing of the crows grew louder, more insistent, until it was a deafening cacophony that seemed to press in on me from all sides. Their inky black forms swirled overhead, blotting out the crimson-streaked sky like a living, writhing cloud. The downdraft from their wings felt cold and clammy against my skin.

Mordred took a step closer. I could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the gaunt hollows of her cheeks. She looked like she hadn't slept in weeks.

She sighed, shaking her head. "Always so quick to assume the worst of me. Is it so hard to believe that I might simply want to talk sister to sister?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Forgive me if I find that a little hard to swallow."

Mordred's smile turned brittle, a flicker of pain flashing through her eyes before she masked it quickly. "I suppose I deserve that. But believe it or not, there was a time when all I wanted was to be a good daughter, a worthy heir to the throne of Camelot, not some wicked witch."

She turned away, gazing out over the churning sea. "I was Uther's firstborn, you know. For years, I trained tirelessly, studying statecraft and diplomacy, honing my skills with a blade. I thought if I could just prove myself, if I could be the perfect princess, then maybe he would finally see my worth."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "But nothing I did was ever good enough. No matter how hard I tried, how many accolades I earned, he always found something wrong with me. Some shortcoming." She spat the words like venom, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Eventually, I realized nothing would ever be good enough for Uther Pendragon. Save for pulling Excalibur free from the stone.” Mordred turned, locking eyes with me. “I tried every spell I could think of, and nothing worked. For months , until…” Mordred's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, her eyes haunted by the memory. "I was desperate. I scoured every scrap of fae lore I could get my hands on, and finally, I found it. A druid ritual, said to imbue the caster with the strength of a thousand men."

She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill. "I knew it was dangerous. The magic required a blood sacrifice.”

My chest tightened, and I took a half step backwards. “Why are you telling me this?”

"Because you need to hear it!” Mordred snapped, sounding half mad already. “You’re about to be handed everything I ever wanted on a silver platter while I live in the darkness, alone.”

My half-sister's words hit me like a whip, and I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Despite her questionable methods, I couldn't deny that she was right. It must be incredibly painful to watch someone else take away all your hopes and dreams, even if they were not rightfully theirs.

“I gathered the necessary components—the blood of a virgin’s throat, poured through the fingers, the heart of a black ram, the ashes of a hanged man. I painted the runes on my skin, chanted the words until my throat was raw. Then I made the final offering. My own blood spilled upon the altar stone."

Mordred's eyes grew distant, as if she was seeing the scene play out again. "I could feel the strength of a thousand warriors flowing into my veins, the knowledge of a hundred sorcerers burning in my mind. And the sword...Excalibur...it called to me..."

She shook her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "I was so close. My hand was on the hilt, the blade begging to be free for the first time in centuries. But then Gaius, Uther's pet weasel, found me.”

She let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. "The old fool didn't even give me a chance to explain. He ran straight to Uther, babbling about forbidden magic and blood rituals. I tried to reason with him, to make him understand I was only trying to claim what was rightfully mine. But he wouldn't listen."

Mordred began to pace along the rocky outcropping, her cloak billowing behind her in the biting wind. The crows overhead seemed to follow her movements, their beady eyes tracking her every step.

"Uther was furious. He dragged me before the entire court, denouncing me as a traitor, a practitioner of the dark arts. I pleaded with him, told him I had only done what was necessary to prove myself worthy of his approval."

She paused, her voice dropping to a haunted whisper. "But he just looked at me with those cold, pitiless eyes, and said that no daughter of his would ever stoop to such depravity. I’ll never forget the disgust in our father’s eyes.”

Mordred turned to face me fully, her expression a mix of pain and rage. "And now, here you are. The long-lost daughter, the chosen one. Here to claim everything I ever wanted.”

I strode closer to Mordred, my heart churning with a tumultuous blend of pity and caution. "Mordred," I said quietly, as though speaking to a scared animal that might attack at any moment. “I’m not so heartless that I can’t sympathize. Uther was wrong to turn his back on his own blood. But this quest for power and vengeance will only bring more suffering for you and all those around you."

Mordred stared at me, her chest heaving, her green eyes glittering with unshed tears. “It’s easy for you to preach to me about suffering when you’ve never experienced it for yourself.”

A bolt of rage shot through me. “You know nothing about my suffering. Don’t mistake my empathy for what you’ve gone through for absolution, Mordred.”

Mordred's eyes flashed with a feverish light. "You think I need your absolution?” She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I've endured more agony than you can possibly imagine. The only thing that matters now is taking back what's mine. And if I have to go through you to do it, then so be it."

She advanced on me; her steps slow and deliberate. The crows overhead began to screech and caw, their cries rising to a deafening crescendo. I stumbled back, my foot slipping on the loose shale. For a heart-stopping moment, I teetered on the edge of the precipice, the churning sea yawning below.

Mordred's hand shot out, grasping my wrist in an iron grip. For a split second, I thought she meant to save me. But I saw the malevolent gleam in her eyes, the cruel twist of her lips.

"Long live the queen," she hissed, her voice dripping with hatred.

And she let go.

The sound of my own screams tore me from sleep. As my eyes flew open, I felt as if my body slammed into the ground, knocking the air out of me. Shapes moved around me in the pre-dawn light. The sound of moss crunched under foot.

Galahad was by my side instantly, his strong arms wrapped around me and pulled me close against his chest. I felt the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his skin through his shirt. The scent of him—leather and wood smoke—wrapped around me, bringing me back to the present.

“Arthur,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and worry. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I shook my head, burying my face against his shoulder, trying to steady my breathing. The other knights formed a protective circle around us, swords drawn, eyes scanning the dark trees for any sign of danger.

“It was a dream,” I finally said, my voice shaky. “But it felt so real. I could feel the wind, smell the sea…”

I shuddered, remembering Mordred’s cold, green eyes. Galahad tightened his hold on me, one hand gently stroking my hair as if to calm my fears.

Percival stalked over, noticing my trembling. He wrapped a dark cloak around both of us, blocking out the chill of the night. “Arthur, why were you screaming? What did you see?”

I lifted my head, searching for Merlin’s familiar blue gaze. In the moonlight, his hair looked almost black, his skin pale and his stance tense. Worry was etched on his face, the way his fists clenched gave him away even more.

An understanding passed between us. Merlin knew me too well, could read my thoughts like an open book. Before I could explain, he spoke up, his voice low and serious. “She saw Mordred.”

Galahad’s grip tightened, as if he could protect me from even the mention of her name.

I swallowed hard. “It was more than just a dream. It felt like a vision. Mordred was on a cliff, talking about her past, about how she tried to prove herself to Uther.” Merlin’s gaze dropped, his face clouded with guilt.

“She’s alone and feels betrayed by our father…by Uther,” I said, struggling with the weight of the word father . It still felt strange.

Lancelot scoffed, quickly putting out the flames that had sparked in his hands. I glanced at Gawain, relieved to see the icy tendrils on his arms receding.

“Don’t believe everything Mordred says, Arthur. She’ll do whatever it takes to get her hands on Excalibur,” Lancelot warned.

I slowly pulled away from Galahad's warm embrace, my legs still quaking as I steadied myself on the mossy ground beneath me. The cloak that Percival had draped over us slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like a dark shadow.

Pacing back and forth, my mind churned with flashes of my vision. No, it was more than that. It felt too real, too visceral to be a dream. The briny scent of the sea clung to my senses, and the haunting cries of crows still rang in my ears.

As I walked, I spotted Excalibur resting in its sheath beside my bedroll. My hand moved almost of its own volition, wrapping around the hilt, the soft leather warm against my palm as if the sword were breathing.

I unsheathed the blade, the steel rasping against the ornate scabbard. The moment I raised it, a soft golden light emanated from the sword, growing brighter until it rivaled the pale glow of the moon. The illumination danced along the elegant fuller, tracing the intricate scrollwork etched into the metal.

Tristan's voice broke through my reverie, his words low and breathy with a mixture of awe and something that sounded like uncertainty. "Arthur, your eyes..."

I tore my gaze away from Excalibur, meeting Tristan's stare. His face had gone ashen, and he approached slowly, his eyes roving over my face.

"What is it?" I asked.

“They're glowing. Just like the sword," he said as he reached me, placing a large palm on my cheek and cupping my face. Then, he turned his head to the side, asking over his shoulder, “What day is it?”

There was a pregnant silence, and I looked over Tristan’s shoulder to see the other knights walking this way slowly.

Percival inhaled deeply, his dark eyes reflecting the starry expanse above. "It's the Dawn of the Ancients," he said, his voice reverent and tinged with a hint of excitement.

I furrowed my brow, glancing between Percy and Tristan. "The Dawn of the Ancients? What does that mean?"

Tristan turned back to me, his hand still cupping my cheek, his thumb gently brushing over my skin. "It's a sacred holiday celebrated by the fae, a time when we honor the old gods we’re descended from. According to legend, on this day, the veil between our world and the realm of the gods grows thin. Magic surges through the land, and those who possess the gift can tap into its raw power."

I tightened my grip on Excalibur's hilt. The golden glow emanating from the blade seemed to pulse in response, as if the sword itself was attuned to the ancient magic in the air.

"The fae believe that on the Dawn of the Ancients, the old gods walk among us," Gawain added as the men began to circle the fire pit. "Then comes the Night of The Ancients, when all of Avalon sets aside their differences and revels in the surge of magic.”

“Your magic must be reacting to the dawn,” Tristan said. I blinked several times as he leaned in, placing a featherlight kiss on my lashes. “Eyes of molten gold…”

Lancelot stepped forward, his hand outstretched towards the flickering flames of the fire pit. With a subtle twist of his wrist, the flames leapt higher, burning brighter and hotter than before. The light cast dancing shadows across the knights' faces, illuminating the wonder and anticipation in their eyes that wasn’t there before.

"I can't believe we didn't realize what day it was," he said. "The Dawn of the Ancients, the most sacred of all fae holidays, and here we are, on the cusp of Arthur's final trial."

The flames crackled and popped, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky like tiny, glowing fireflies. The heat washed over us in waves, warming our skin and seeming to infuse the very air with a palpable sense of magic.

"This is no coincidence," Merlin said. "The old gods have aligned the stars for this moment, Arthur. Your magic, the surge of power in the land, the opening of the portal to Avalon. It's all happening for a reason."