Chapter 2

Chapter Two

ARTHUR

All around us, people began to emerge from their homes and shops, drawn by the commotion and the otherworldly glow. They gathered at the edges of the square, murmuring in shock and wonder. Shopkeepers and merchants, mothers with babes in their arms, grizzled old men leaning on gnarled canes—all staring at me with a mixture of reverence and disbelief.

"The sword!" a woman cried, her voice shaking. "It's chosen someone at last!"

"Impossible," a man hissed. “The sword could never choose a woman.” But his eyes told a different story as he stared at me in disbelief.

A ripple passed through the growing crowd, building like a wave. More and more people poured into the square, heedless of the rain, their faces upturned and shining in Excalibur's light. Their awe was a palpable thing, pressing against my skin until I felt like I could barely breathe.

"Arthur," Merlin said cautiously. “We need to get out of here now.”

Just then, dozens of palace guards emerged from the streets like a steel tide, their crimson cloaks billowing in the wind. They marched into the square in perfect formation, boots striking the mud in unison. At their head strode a towering figure in ornate armor, a plumed helmet tucked under one arm.

"Make way for the Captain of the Guard!" one of the soldiers bellowed.

The captain came to a halt before the plinth, his eyes raking over me and Merlin, lingering on Excalibur blazing in my grip. Up close, I could see the lines of age and experience etched into his weathered face, the silver threading his dark hair and close-cropped beard.

"So," he said, his voice deep and measured, but not unkind. "The sword has chosen."

I couldn’t tell if it was anger in his voice or just confusion. The other guards surrounding him glanced at one another, then back at me as if they couldn’t comprehend what they were seeing.

It was not a question, but I answered anyway. "I suppose it has."

The captain studied me for a long, weighted moment, assessing me and judging. I met his gaze squarely, chin lifted. Never in my twenty-four years on this earth have I let a man talk down to me, and it wouldn’t be starting now.

Then, moving slowly and with great ceremony, the captain sank to one knee. He bowed his head, fist pressed to his heart in a gesture of fealty. "My lady," he said, the words with utter reverence.

All around him, the palace guards followed suit, dropping to their knees in a ripple of crimson cloaks and glinting armor. Their heads bowed as one, fists over their hearts, a sea of allegiance.

The watching crowd gasped and murmured, then slowly, hesitantly, they too began to kneel. Weathered knees and work-roughened hands sank into the muddy cobblestones as they paid homage. To me. Their future queen.

Holy gods…

I stood frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening. It felt like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. A day ago, an hour ago, I had been a nobody. A vagrant and a thief, scraping by on quick wits and quicker fingers. Now I held a legendary sword and a hundred people knelt at my feet, ready to pledge their lives to my cause.

But I had no cause. I was nobody.

A warm hand settled on the small of my back, startling me. But it was just Merlin. I glanced at him and found his eyes already on me, bright with awe. “Don’t let them see you falter. They’re hoping for it,” he whispered, so low that only I could hear him.

The captain rose to his feet. He approached me with measured steps, his expression inscrutable. "My lady," he said again, bowing his head. "By the ancient laws of Camelot, we must bring you before the king. He will wish to see the chosen wielder of Excalibur with his own eyes."

My stomach clenched with nerves, but I nodded. "I understand."

The captain gestured to his men. "Form up! We escort the lady to the castle." The guards rose in a clatter of armor, falling into formation around me.

I glanced back at Merlin, suddenly desperate not to be parted from him. He was the only familiar thing in this strange new world I'd been thrust into. "Merlin..."

He squeezed my hand, his eyes holding mine. "Don't worry, Wart. I'll be right behind you. I promise I'll find you as soon as I can."

I clung to his words like a lifeline as the guards marched me away, the crowd parting before us. We passed through the winding streets. The people pressed close to catch a glimpse of me, their faces alight with wonder and hope. Children darted underfoot, their laughter chasing me as they reenacted the moment I'd drawn the sword.

All too soon, we reached the castle gates. They loomed before us, wrought from the blackest iron, twined with vines of hammered silver. Beyond them, the castle rose in a sprawl of soaring towers and crenelated walls, its pale stone turned to molten gold by the rising sun. Crimson pennants snapped in the wind, the dragon of Camelot on their folds.

The guards led me across the lowered drawbridge, our footsteps echoing off the ancient stones. We passed through a labyrinth of courtyards and cloistered walks, past burbling fountains and gardens lush with herbs and flowers. Servants in the royal livery stopped to stare as we went by, their eyes wide.

At last we reached the keep, its massive doors carved with scenes from legend: the forging of Excalibur, the rise of the first kings, the coming of magic to the land. The captain raised a gloved hand, and the doors swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a cavernous hall.

I stepped inside and felt the weight of centuries pressing down on me. Tapestries adorned the walls, telling the story of Camelot in vibrant threads. My gaze was drawn to the far end of the hall, where a dais rose in three marble steps. And upon that dais was a throne hewn from a single block of gleaming obsidian, shot through with veins of gold.

The man who sat on that throne had a face both handsome and a bit terrifying, framed by a mane of silver hair that gleamed in the golden light. His eyes were the color of a winter sky. He wore robes of dark red, embroidered with the golden dragon sigil in shimmering thread. A heavy golden crown rested upon his brow, studded with sapphires the size of a coin.

Uther Pendragon was the High King of Camelot, the largest kingdom in all of Albion.

I stood on legs that trembled, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Up close, the lines of care and age that scored his face, the weariness that lurked behind the facade, were apparent. I wondered what Uther thought of me, a girl covered in mud and blood gripping Excalibur as if her life depended on it. And it very well might.

The massive doors at the far end of the hall swung open once more. A group of men strode in, their steps ringing on the flagstones. Each was clad in pitch black armor, with silken black cloaks swirling behind them.

The Knights of the Round Table. The men sworn to protect the wielder of Excalibur, to fight and die at their command.

They moved with the easy grace of the fae, honed over hundreds of years of their long lives. They were each impossibly tall and broad, a few of them with hair so long it reached past their shoulders, exposing pointed ears. As one, they knelt before the throne, fists pressed to armored chests.

"My liege," their leader said, his voice a deep, cultured rumble that had a slight, barely noticeable accent. "We came as soon as we heard. Is it true? Has Excalibur chosen?"

Uther inclined his head toward me. "See for yourself, Sir Lancelot."

The knight turned, his eyes widening as they fell on me and the sword blazing in my grip. Slowly, he rose to his feet; the others followed suit. I felt the weight of their gazes like a physical thing, assessing, weighing.

It took all I had in me to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. This was absurd.

" You’re the chosen one?" he—Sir Lancelot—asked.

I held out the sword, the blade shimmering with its unearthly light. The runes etched into the steel seemed to dance and twist before my eyes, ancient and unreadable, in some language of the fae, no doubt. Lancelot's eyes widened as he took in the sight of it.

"Impossible," he breathed, taking a step closer. His gaze raked over me, taking in my bedraggled appearance, my simple tunic and leggings still damp with rain. "The sword was not supposed to choose a woman."

Something hot bloomed in my chest, and I narrowed my eyes at the knight. Who said the sword wasn’t supposed to choose a woman? Where was it written that a woman couldn’t possibly be worthy?

"And yet, here we are," I said dryly, an eyebrow arching. “The last time I bothered to check, I was still very much a woman.”

Lancelot circled me slowly, his steps measured and predatory. I turned with him, unwilling to let him out of my sight. The other knights watched in silence, their faces utterly devoid of any discernible emotion.

"Who are you?" Lancelot asked at last, coming to a halt before me. "What is your name?"

"Arthur.” The word echoed through the hall. "My name is Arthur."

Lancelot's brows shot up. "Arthur?" he repeated, incredulous. "That’s a man's name."

"Yes, I'm aware." I saw the question in his eyes and answered before he could ask. "I was raised in an orphanage. When I first came to them, I was so small and scrawny, they thought I was a boy. They called me Arthur and eventually it just…was. I can’t remember my given name.”

Lancelot looked at me long and hard. I perceived the doubt and disbelief warring in his eyes, the struggle to reconcile what he saw with what he’d always been told. A woman wielding Excalibur?

But there was something else in his gaze too, something that made my breath catch in my throat. A flicker of admiration, of respect. As if, despite himself, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer audacity of it all. A scrappy orphan girl daring to claim a legendary relic.

“You’re a halfling.” His eyes darted to my pointed ears.

My face flushed, and I hated that he could see it. “I don’t know which of my parents was fae, but I grew up among humans.”

Halflings were common in Albion. During the war that took place between the courts in Avalon, fae from both courts fled through the portals to find safety with humans. Some stayed, mating with humans and raising halfling children. I never had the chance to know either of my parents. I could barely even remember their faces.

After a long moment, he gave a slight nod, as if to himself. "The king will decide if you’re truly the chosen one."

"Yes," Uther agreed, rising from his throne. He descended the dais slowly, his steps heavy and booming through the silent room. The knights parted before him like water, bowing their heads in deference.

He came to a halt in front of me, his eyes like chips of ice in his stoic face. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze, feeling suddenly…common and oh so ordinary. "This kingdom has waited centuries for Excalibur to choose its champion, but I never thought it would be a mere girl covered in filth and the gods only know what else."

Slowly, I lifted my eyes. "With respect, Your Majesty. I might be a woman , but I’m far from mere .”

I had to pretend. At least until I was out of the room. Until I was alone and safe. I had to pretend that I was stronger than I was. That I was more than I was.

The guards in the room shuffled on their feet, and a low murmur filled the room, silenced only by Uther’s sharp gaze. I met that gaze squarely, refusing to flinch or look away. Let him see me, all of me. The thief and the vagrant, the lost orphan girl and the woman I wasn’t sure I could become. The woman Excalibur had seen fit to choose above all others.

"Bold words," Uther said at last, a hint of grudging respect in his voice. "But words are wind, child. It is actions that will prove your worth in the end." He strode around me in a wide circle. “You will perform a quest. Let it be the ultimate test. If you live, and return to me alive, then you, my dear, are truly my rightful heir, and will ascend the throne to be hailed High Queen.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry as dust. A quest. Of course there would be a quest. Some impossible task to prove my worth, my right to wield this sacred blade.

"What would you have me do, Your Majesty?" I asked, proud of the steadiness of my voice.

High Queen. Was this really happening? I wanted to laugh, but I had a feeling Uther wouldn’t appreciate that very much.

"In the heart of the Wandering Wood—" His eyes lost focus as he stared at something over my head, "there lies an ancient stone temple. A place of power, created by the old gods themselves. At its center stands an altar, and upon that altar, a golden chalice. The Holy Grail."

A murmur rippled through the assembled knights. I felt my heart stutter a beat. The Holy Grail. The myth of all myths, said to grant eternal life to any who drank from it. Men had searched for centuries and never found even a whisper of its whereabouts, or the path to the mythical Wandering Wood in the first place.

"Bring me the Grail. Prove yourself worthy of Excalibur and the crown. Do it and they both shall be yours."

What was the catch? Because there was always a damn catch .

I looked to Lancelot and to the knights flanking him. Their faces were unreadable still, but I sensed the weight of their expectations, their doubts. They didn't believe I could do it. Didn't believe in me. I wasn’t sure I even blamed them.

“What are the terms?” I asked sharply. Another murmur went through the room at my lack of formality.

Uther nodded towards Lancelot. “You and your knights will complete this quest together, but it will be you and only you who will capture the Grail. If you fail, then your life is forfeit.”

I released a slow breath, my mind racing. The terms were harsh—unforgiving even. But what choice did I have? If I refused the quest, I would be branded a coward, unworthy of the sword at my hip. And more than that, I would never know if Excalibur had truly chosen rightly. If there was more to me than the thief and the vagrant.

I didn’t want this. Any of it. There were stories told by peasants of lowly men thrust up from obscurity, becoming a great hero who defied the odds. But I wasn’t one of those men.

With all eyes on me, I had to make a decision. There was no time to deliberate. No time to weigh the odds. The king waited, but he wasn’t known for being patient.

"I accept," I said finally, though it really wasn’t a choice. "I’ll bring you this Holy Grail, or-or I’ll die in the attempt I suppose."

The odds of that eventuality were staggeringly high. It felt like someone else was talking in my place. As if I were merely a passenger in my own body. A small part of me considered that this might be a dream, and any minute now, Merlin would pour cold water on my face, jolting me from sleep in the ramshackle old barn.

Uther nodded, satisfaction glinting in his wintry eyes. "So be it. You have until the next full moon to complete your quest. Go now, and may the gods watch over you, Arthur."

I bowed my head, fist pressed to my heart in the gesture of fealty in the same way I’d seen the knights move. Then I turned on my heel and strode from the hall. Whispers followed me, and I ignored the eyes licking over my mud-covered form. Judging me.

In the entrance hall just outside of the main throne room, a group of women were waiting for me, clad in matching golden dresses with red sashes. They curtsied as one, skirts pooling on the flagstones.

"My lady," the foremost said, her voice sweet and welcoming. "We’re here to escort you to your chambers, to prepare for your quest."

I blinked. "My chambers?"

"But of course, my lady," another said, her smile gentle. "As the chosen wielder of Excalibur, you are now heir apparent to the throne. Your chambers await you in the royal wing."

My head spun. Chambers in the royal wing, as if I were a princess out of a storybook. It seemed too fantastical to be real.

"Please, come with us." The first woman beckoned me forward.

In a daze, I allowed them to lead me through a labyrinth of corridors, each more grand than the last. Soaring stone arches, intricate tapestries, gilded chandeliers dripping with crystal droplets. Everywhere, the dragon of Camelot reared in gold, crimson, and emerald green.

At last, we stopped before a massive oaken door, banded with wrought iron scrollwork. The women pushed it open to reveal a suite of rooms. A vast receiving room featured a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate frescoes of dragons and knights. Tapestries depicting sea monsters and pirate ships hung on the walls.

A massive fireplace dominated one wall, the mantle carved with twining vines and delicate flowers. Before it, a plush rug in deep crimson so thick my feet sank into it with each step. The furniture was all carved of gleaming mahogany—a long dining table that could easily seat twenty, a sideboard laden with silver platters and crystal decanters, plump armchairs and settees upholstered in gold brocade.

Double doors led out onto a wide balcony overlooking the palace gardens, the scent of jasmine and roses wafting in on the breeze. The other doors led to the bedchamber, the dressing room, the study, and a small library. Each was more grand than the last, draped in silks and velvets, glittering with gilt and precious gems.

The bed was a vast expanse of carved wood, and the posts were twined with climbing roses wrought in gold. The coverlet was cloth-of-gold, scattered with seed pearls and glinting with tiny mirrors.

"This...this is too much," I murmured, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "I don't belong here. I'm not..."

"You’re the chosen one," the first woman said firmly, her eyes kind. "This is exactly where you belong. Now come, it’s time to get you cleaned up."

I peered down at myself and grimaced. I would have smelled my sleeve to see just how atrociously I’d appeared before the king, but I could smell the metallic, muddy reek from here. Maybe a bath was a good idea.

They led me into an adjoining chamber, where a large copper tub sat steaming before another roaring fire. The scent of lavender and rosemary wafted from the water. The women helped me undress, their hands gentle as they eased me into the bath.

I couldn't remember the last time I had been truly clean. As the women scrubbed me gently with soft cloths and fragrant soaps, I felt the grime of the city streets slowly melt away. They washed my hair with something that smelled of honey and summer rain, their fingers massaging my scalp until I thought I might drift off right there in the steaming water.

When at last they were done, my skin was pink and glowing, my hair a gleaming curtain of chestnut curls. They wrapped me in a robe of soft silk and led me back into the bedchamber.

There, laid out on the bed, was an array of clothing the likes of which I had never seen. Tunics of the finest linen, jerkins of supple leather, breeches cut from butter-soft doeskin. Boots of tooled leather, tall and sleek, polished to a shine.

Reaching out to touch them, I gaped at the feel of such finery beneath my fingertips, then I paused, frowning. No gowns... One of the women caught my eye and gave me a cheeky wink. My lips tugged up in response, meeting her smirk.

How did she know I was going to request men’s style clothing? Maybe she was a sorcerer. Could she read my mind? I shuddered at the thought.

With nimble fingers, the women helped me dress in men's attire, lacing, buttoning, and buckling. Softer than anything I had ever worn, the linen tunic felt luxurious against my skin. Fitting like a second skin, the leather jerkin was both supple and sturdy, molding to the contours of my body.

I stood before the full-length mirror, barely able to recognize the woman staring back at me. Gone was the scrawny waif with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes. In her place stood a scrawny waif wrapped in a fancy costume. I looked good, but ultimately confused.

One of the women stepped forward, a slim circlet of silver in her hands. "A gift, my lady. From the king himself." She settled it on my brow, the metal cool and heavy against my skin. I touched it, feeling the intricate knotwork beneath my fingertips.

A knock sounded at the door, and a young page poked his head in, his eyes widening as he took in my transformation. "My lady," he stammered. "The king summons you to the Round Table. Your knights are waiting to meet you.”

Your knights.

I had knights.

I followed the page through the twisting corridors of the castle, my heart pounding like a drum. The weight of Excalibur at my hip was a constant reminder of the fact that I really could die in the coming days if I wasn’t careful.

We emerged into a large vaulted chamber, its walls lined with soaring stained glass windows that cast dappled patterns of light across the flagstones. At the heart of the room stood a massive table, perfectly round, hewn from a single slab of stone. And around that table, seated in high-backed chairs carved with dragons and krakens, were the legendary Knights of the Round Table.

They rose as I entered, their faces a mix of curiosity and wariness. I recognized Lancelot, his shoulder-length golden hair gleaming in the light from the windows. He was the knight who commanded fire from his fingertips. That fire glowed in his golden eyes.

Beside him was Percival, the dark-haired, dark-eyed shadow knight, who could bend the darkness to his will. Damn, he was easy on the eyes. They all were, actually. But that was to be expected of fae males.

Galahad, the knight who spoke to creatures and whispered to the land, with flame red hair and a thick warrior-like beard and muscles on muscles, sat grinning at me, his brown eyes skimming up and down my body. He was a massive man, barely fitting in the chair.

Tristan sat next to him—the seer with long snow white hair that flowed like silk down his back, skin the color of the midnight sky, and eyes so silver they were almost colorless. He was so beautiful it was almost painful to look at him—both masculine and pretty at the same time.

Then there was Gawain, the ice wielder, with skin the color of fresh clay, black locks entwined with silver beads that reached his shoulders, held back with a small leather band, and gray eyes dancing with mischief. He had a thick black beard, with small braids woven through. He was nearly as large as Galahad, and just as handsome as the rest.

I’d grown up listening to stories about these knights and their adventures, but I’d only ever seen them from a distance. Never in my life would I have imagined I’d be standing here in front of the Round Table itself, with their eyes pinned on me.

"Knights of the Round Table—" Uther's voice rang out, cutting through the silence. I looked up, watching as Uther stepped out onto a balcony that overlooked the room. "I present to you, your new champion. Arthur, first of her name.”

Hearing it out loud was surreal, and again, I nearly laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. First of her name…But what was my name? Arthur wasn’t my given name, and I’d forgotten my family name a long time ago.

I expected the king to descend and join us, but to my shock, Uther turned and left the room, the door slamming behind him. The room felt heavy and still. I was trapped with five powerful fae warriors and no way to escape, even if I tried. Not that I planned on running. I didn’t. I fully intended to see this through to the bitter end.

I lifted my chin, meeting their eyes squarely. I wouldn’t cower before them, would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

"I know what you're thinking," I said. “You're wondering if this is some kind of trick."

What was I doing speaking to the Knights of the Round Table this way? It would take less than a breath for Percival to send his shadows to silence me for good. But I had a suspicion that this was a test in itself. To see how the future queen handled herself in a room full of men.

I drew the sword from its new sheath in a whisper of steel, the blade shimmering in the dappled light of the candles. The knights' eyes widened, a few hands going instinctively to the hilts of their own swords.

“But unfortunately for you lot, I never back down from a challenge. I’ve been told it’s one of my most annoying traits.” My lips pulled into a grin, and I could have sworn Gawain smirked. My eyes bounced between them, one by one.

Lancelot stepped forward, his eyes narrowed. "You may have drawn the sword, but that does not make you worthy of it yet.”

"You're right. Drawing the sword doesn't make me worthy. But neither does being born with a cock between your legs."

A few of the knights shifted on their feet, exchanging glances. Both Gawain and Galahad were outright grinning now, and there was a glimmer of amusement in Tristan’s eyes.

"Worthiness is proven through deeds, not words," I continued, sheathing Excalibur with a decisive snap. "And that's exactly what I intend to do. If King Uther wants the damned Holy Grail, then I’ll go get it for him.”

I was saying all the right things, I hoped. I really hoped and prayed I was.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Lancelot asked, arching a golden brow.

" That , my surly golden friend," I said, perching a hand on my hip and pointing a finger his way, “is what I need to figure out.”

He scoffed, sitting back in his chair. “I should have known.”

I shot him a flat look. "Just five hours ago, I was fighting off mercenaries in a rundown barn after ditching a drink tab, with two silver coins to rub together and only one friend in the world. So forgive me for not having an elaborate plan for finding the Holy Grail ready to go." I gestured to the Round Table. "Shall we sit and discuss this like civilized folk? Or would you prefer to keep posturing?"

Lancelot's jaw tightened, but after a moment, he inclined his head. "As you wish, my lady." There was a hint of mocking in the title, but I let it slide.

The knights took their seats around the table, each moving with the grace and power of the fae. I settled into the grandest chair, the one directly opposite Uther's vacant seat. Lancelot sat to my right, Gawain to my left. The others arranged themselves in the remaining chairs, all eyes fixed on me.

"Right then." Leaning forward. I braced my elbows on the table. "The Wandering Wood. What do we know about it? It’s in Avalon, if the stories are true, right?"

Lancelot held up a hand. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Before you can even think of entering Avalon, you’ll have to pass a series of trials in Albion first. Each trial will lead you to the next, getting harder as they go.”

“The trials are designed to test every aspect of a would-be ruler. Strength, courage, wisdom, virtue. Only the worthy will be able to pass through to the Wandering Wood,” Tristan added, speaking for the first time. His voice was melodic and deeper than expected.

"Sounds delightful," I drawled with a sigh. "I don't suppose any of you strapping lads would care to offer some advice? Seeing as you're all so very ancient and wise."

Gawain barked a laugh, his gray eyes dancing. "Careful, little faerie. Some of us are older than the very stones of this castle. I'd wager we've forgotten more than you'll ever know."

I shot him a small grin, liking him already. "Ah, but the key word there is 'forgotten'. Meanwhile, my mind is as sharp as Lancelot's cheekbones."

Lancelot sputtered, his golden skin taking on a distinct flush. Even Percival, silent and watchful but brooding, cracked a smile.

"In all seriousness, though. I’d really appreciate any wisdom you could share. The fates think I'm the 'chosen one,' but honestly, this whole thing feels way over my head. I've never quested anything more important than my next meal."

Percival leaned forward, shadows seeming to cling to him like a second skin. "The trials will test you in ways you can't possibly prepare for. They're unpredictable. What worked for one ruler may kill the next one."

"Well, that's reassuring."

Galahad stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The key is to trust your instincts. Excalibur chose you for a reason. The sword doesn’t make mistakes. It knows what it wants from its wielder, and what you can do."

"Easier said than done. My instincts are more attuned to picking pockets than passing divine tests." I was good at being unseen and unheard, but something told me this quest would be quite the opposite of that.

Gawain leaned back in his chair, propping his booted feet up on the table. "Then you'd best start honing some new instincts. The trials won't care about your sordid past."

I shot him a withering look. "Thank you, Sir Obvious. Any other dazzling insights you'd like to share?"

He just grinned, completely unrepentant, and opened his mouth, probably to say something idiotic.

Lancelot cut him off. "You’re the first to search for the Holy Grail while also wielding Excalibur. Before that, it was only young kings with delusions of grandeur. I’m afraid we might all be out of our depth with what to expect this time around. What we can tell you is that the first trial will appear to you when you’re least expecting it. A clue should present itself, but you won’t know until it’s staring you in the face. We’ll travel to the Kingswood to start with, and from there, Excalibur’s magic will take hold.”

“And what role do you all play in this quest then?” I eyed each of them skeptically.

The knights exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. "We’re bound by the goddess Odessa to serve the wielder of Excalibur, and to protect and guide them on their path to the throne. But the trials themselves? Those you’ll ultimately face alone. We cannot interfere with the trial."

I exhaled slowly. Alone. Because of course. Because becoming the ruler of a legendary kingdom couldn't possibly be easy. "Right then," I said, squaring my shoulders. "I suppose we should set out at first light?"

Lancelot nodded. "The sooner we begin, the better. The trials have a way of...accelerating matters."

That sounded ominous, but I pushed the thought aside. One impossible thing at a time.

As I glanced around the table, I met each knight’s gaze one by one. “Clearly, I’m not what you expected. I’m not some noble-born warrior maiden or a powerful sorceress. I’m just…Arthur.” Lifting my chin, a flicker of defiance ignited in my chest. “But Galahad said the sword doesn’t make mistakes.”

Lancelot held my gaze, his molten eyes seeing too much for my comfort. "For all our sakes, I hope the sword chose wisely."