Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

GALAHAD

I glanced over at Arthur, trying not to grin as her brow furrowed in frustration as she tried to make sense of everything that’d been tossed her way. Despite the weariness and dirt of travel, she was still breathtakingly beautiful. All fiery attitude and wild curls escaping from her braid. I had to force myself to look away before my thoughts could wander down paths they shouldn't.

Closing my eyes, I reached out with my mind, searching for the familiar presence of a hawk I’d seen flying overhead. I found her soaring high above the treetops, her keen eyes scanning the forest below. Through the temporary bond, I saw what she saw—the dense green canopy stretching out in all directions, broken only by the thin ribbon of the path we followed.

At first glance, nothing seemed odd. But as the bird banked and circled, I caught a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. A shadow darting between the trees, too large to be a deer or boar. My pulse quickened.

I urged the hawk lower, trying to get a better look. She dove, her wings tucking close to her body as she plummeted towards the forest floor. The wind rushed in her ears, and the trees blurred into a green smear. At the last moment, she snapped her wings open, pulling out of the dive mere feet from the ground.

And there, in a small clearing just ahead of our party, stood a figure cloaked in black. Even from a distance, I detected the malevolent energy radiating from them, a dark aura that made her feathers stand on end.

The figure's head was bowed, their face hidden deep within the shadows of their hood. But I caught the glint of eyes, cold and calculating, tracking our progress along the path. I severed the connection abruptly, not wanting to alert the stranger to my magical surveillance. Blinking away the lingering disorientation, I turned to the others.

"We're being watched," I said quietly, not wanting my voice to carry. "There's someone up ahead, just off the path. They're cloaked and hooded, but I could sense dark magic around them."

Lancelot's hand immediately went to his sword hilt, his posture tensing. "How close?"

"A quarter mile, maybe less. Definitely waiting for us."

"I don't like anything that skulks in the shadows," Tristan muttered.

Merlin held up a hand, his eyes unfocused as he extended his own magical senses. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can't get a clear reading. Whoever they are, they know how to shield their presence. But the fact that they're hiding at all suggests they don't have friendly intentions."

I glanced at Arthur, noting the way her hand had drifted to Excalibur's hilt. She met my gaze, her brown eyes hardening. "So what's the plan? We can't exactly turn around."

Lancelot nodded grimly. "We press on, but cautiously. Spread out a bit so we're not such a clustered target. Merlin, can you cloak our approach at all?"

The sorcerer tilted his head, considering. "I can try to dampen our magical signature, make us harder to sense. But if this stranger had dark magic, it might not fool them for long."

"Do it," Lancelot ordered. "Anything to give us an edge." He turned to me. "Galahad, keep your hawk circling above. We need her eyes."

I nodded, already reaching out to the hawk once more. She caught an updraft and soared higher, sharp gaze scanning the forest below.

We advanced slowly, the usual clomp and jingle of the horses muffled by Merlin's magic. The air felt thick and heavy, the eerie silence broken by the occasional birdcall and the creak of leather.

As we neared the spot where I'd seen the figure, I held up a hand, signaling a halt. The others reined in their mounts, hands hovering near weapons as we peered into the shadowed tree line.

At first, I saw nothing, just the endless vertical bars of the trees and the shifting patterns of dappled sunlight on the forest floor. Until a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom, resolving into the cloaked figure I had seen through the hawk’s eyes. They stood unmoving, facing our party, their stance relaxed but radiating coiled menace.

"Who goes there?" Lancelot called out, his voice echoing. "Show yourself and state your business!"

A low, rasping chuckle emanated from the depths of the black hood, sending chills skittering down my spine. "My, my," a voice mused, sounding more amused than threatened, "such bravado from the handsome faerie."

Slowly, almost lazily, a pair of hands emerged from the figure's sleeves, rising to push back the concealing hood. A man's face was revealed—gaunt and angular, with skin as pale as bleached bone. His eyes were the color of emerald, glinting with cruel amusement as they raked over our group.

A thrill of recognition and dread shot through me as I stared at the man's face. I knew those eyes, that cruel twist of lips. I'd seen them before, on the body of another.

But it was Tristan who spoke the name, his voice hard as flint. "Mordred. Your disguises might fool some, but I see through them clear as day."

Mordred chuckled. "Clever faerie. But you always were the perceptive one, weren't you, seer?"

As he spoke, his form shimmered and blurred, like a reflection in a disturbed pool. His features melted and reformed, sickly skin morphing to a rich porcelain hue, eyes bleeding to a vivid bright green. Black hair lengthened and curled, turning the color of spilled blood. In the space of a heartbeat, the gaunt man was gone, and in his place stood a woman of stunning, terrible beauty.

I heard Arthur's sharp intake of breath beside me, felt Merlin's magic surge and crackle in the air like an oncoming storm. Lancelot had drawn his sword, the steel rasping against the scabbard.

Mordred, the exiled daughter of King Uther himself. He’d banished her from Camelot after she tried and failed to force the sword from the stone using twisted, dark magic. My eyes shot down to her right arm, and sure enough, gnarled scars and pockmarked skin still mottled her once flawless beauty. A sign that the sword had fought back against the dark magic.

"Ah, so the prodigal daughter returns," Gawain said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I thought we'd seen the last of you when you fled Camelot in disgrace."

Mordred's green eyes flashed with malice as she flexed her scarred hand. "A temporary setback. One that will soon be rectified once I claim the Grail."

Her gaze slid to Arthur, a predatory smile curving her lips. "Hello, little sister. It's been far too long."

I watched in stunned disbelief as Arthur reeled back in her saddle, and her face drained of color. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. The shock and confusion in her eyes mirrored my own.

"Sister?" she finally managed to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you talking about? My father was a farmer before he and my mother were killed. I’m not…" She trailed off as a flicker of uncertainty crossed her features.

Mordred threw back her head and laughed, the sound harsh and mocking in the stillness of the forest. "Oh, you poor, na?ve little thing. Did you really believe the faerietale that you were just some ordinary girl, plucked from obscurity by chance?"

Yes. Even I had believed it. What other explanation was there?

She shook her head, tutting softly. "You’re so much more than that. The blood of kings flows through your veins. You’re the daughter of Uther Pendragon and the fae whore who tempted him from my mother’s marriage bed."