Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

ARTHUR

Had Uther known?

Had he fucking known?

I wanted to scream, to lash out, to unleash the storm of rage swirling inside me. I wanted to scratch Mordred’s eyes from her skull but to wipe the smirk off of her face.

She took a step closer, her emerald eyes boring into mine. "Embrace it. Embrace your true bloodline—your birthright. We could rule Albion together, you know. Uther would never know what hit him. We could bend the very fabric of the realms to our will if we bring the sword and Grail together with my dark magic. Think about it..."

“She’s lying to you, Wart,” Merlin warned.

Mordred’s eyes flicked to him, and her grin spread even wider. A sick feeling coiled in my belly. “Merlin. I’ve missed you in my bed.”

What—

No, no, no…

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut, all the air rushing out of my lungs.

My eyes snapped to him, searching his face for any hint of denial, any sign that this was just a cruel lie. But Merlin wasn't looking at me. His gaze was locked on Mordred. There was a storm swirling in those blue eyes—anger, guilt, regret. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that she was telling the truth.

"It was a long time ago," Merlin said finally through gritted teeth. "Before she was exiled. We were young and stupid. It was the biggest mistake I ever made."

I didn’t know what to believe. Every word out of his mouth was poisoned now. A potential lie. A calculated lie. Tears pricked at my eyes but I held them back with rage.

Mordred laughed, the sound grating against my raw nerves. "We were more than that. Drive us some credit, Merlin. We were glorious together; our magic intertwined, our bodies tangled in the sheets. Don't you remember?" Her eyes flicked to Arthur. “I always loved that little thing he did with his tongue?—”

“Enough!” Merlin growled, sending a spark of white hot magic her way. It missed.

I felt bile rise in my throat, hot and acrid. The thought of Merlin, my Merlin, in the arms of this viper? It made my skin crawl, made me want to scream and rage and cry all at once. She was enjoying this.

"Poor little Wart ," she crooned, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she pouted her bottom lip. "So lost, so alone. Did you think Merlin didn’t know?" She shook her head, tutting softly. "He's always known who you really were—Uther's bastard daughter. He kept you close. Molded you into his perfect little pawn. And now he wants to fuck you too. It’s hilarious, really."

"Tell me she's lying. Tell me you didn't know."

Merlin's face was ashen, his eyes haunted. For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing. And in that silence, I felt my world shatter.

"I suspected," he said finally, each word sounding like it was being dragged out of him. "But I never knew for sure. Don’t let her twist things, Arthur. It’s what she wants.”

I forced myself to take another deep breath, and ignore the churning mess of feelings to focus on the threat at hand. "I don't care who my father is. I’m not Uther's pawn, and I sure as hell am not yours, Mordred."

Mordred's eyes narrowed, her lips twisting into a sneer. "You're a fool, little sister. You could have had everything—power, glory, a kingdom at your dainty little feet. But you choose instead to align yourself with these pathetic relics of a bygone age and a street rat sorcerer."

She gestured dismissively at the knights, who had moved to form a protective barrier in front of me. Lancelot stood at the center, his sword leveled at Mordred's heart. Galahad and Tristan flanked him, weapons drawn and ready. Even Percival, still shaken from the events of the previous night, had placed himself firmly between me and the threat, shadows swirling around his clenched fists.

Merlin stood slightly apart, his hands crackling with barely restrained magic, his eyes never leaving Mordred's face. I noticed the tension radiating off him, the coiled readiness to strike at the slightest provocation.

Mordred let out a theatrical sigh. "Very well. You've clearly made your choice. I offered you a chance to join me and stay breathing. To claim your birthright by my side. But if you insist on being stubborn, I'll just have to take what I want by force."

Her eyes flicked down to the sword at my hip, a covetous hunger burning in their emerald depths. "Excalibur," she breathed, the name falling from her lips like a prayer and a curse. "The key to my kingdom. Wasted on an ignorant little whelp."

She took a step forward, her hand outstretched, fingers curling like claws. Shadows gathered around her, writhing and twisting like living things. I felt the darkness of her magic, cold and oily against my skin, seeking to worm its way inside me.

Mordred surged forward in the blink of an eye, moving faster than any human could. Instead of clashing with their swords and their magic, Mordred erupted into a cloud of hundreds of black crows and disappeared into the darkened forest.

I stared at the spot where Mordred had disappeared, my heart thundering. The crows' harsh caws still echoed in my ears.

"She's gone," Merlin said, his voice tight with tension. "For now. But she'll be back."

I turned to face him. "I don’t want to hear another word from your lying mouth, Merlin.”

The hurt in his eyes was almost enough to pierce through the haze of rage and betrayal that clouded my mind. Almost.

"Arthur, please," he said softly, reaching out a hand as if to touch me. I flinched away, unable to bear the thought of his skin on mine. Not now, not after learning of his past with Mordred.

"Don't," I snapped, my voice shaking. "Just—just don't."

I turned away from him, facing my knights instead. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to push down the roiling emotions and focus on what was important.

"We have to keep moving," I said, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears. "The Grail is our priority. Everything else..." I swallowed hard, not daring to look at Merlin. "Everything else can wait. With Mordred out there, we have to prioritize speed."

Lancelot, surprisingly, gave me a curt nod, and shouted, “You heard the lady!”

We rode for hours, the forest around us deepening into an abyss of shadows, each mile dragging us deeper into an unsettling chill. The vibrant greens of the leaves that once danced with sunlight faded into a sickly gray, like the color drained from a long-forgotten dream. The trunks of the trees twisted and contorted, their gnarled shapes resembling skeletal fingers clawing at the dimming sky, as if trying to escape the encroaching darkness.

The air turned frigid, biting into my skin. Each breath escaped from my lips in a ghostly mist. I shivered, instinctively pulling my cloak tighter around my shoulders, the fabric a thin barrier against the creeping cold that seemed to seep into my very bones. With every passing moment, an unsettling sensation gnawed at me. It felt as if a thousand unseen eyes were lurking in the shadows, watching our every move with a malevolence that sent chills racing down my spine.

As the last slivers of light struggled to pierce the thick canopy above, we stumbled upon a clearing that made my blood run cold.

Bones littered the ground, the remains of countless creatures, their once-lively forms now reduced to a macabre display. The skeletal remains were sun-bleached and weathered with time. Skulls leered at us from atop piles of femurs and ribs, their empty sockets seeming to track our every movement, mocking us in silent accusation. It was as if the very soil held secrets.

“The Boneyard,” Lancelot murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the very air were listening. “We’ve reached the border.”

I dismounted my horse, and the ground crunched beneath my boots. Each crackling sound sent a shiver of revulsion up my spine. The clearing was a graveyard of bones, remnants of lives long since extinguished, and I stepped hesitantly into the maw of decay. The air hung heavy with a putrid stench, a vile mixture of rot and something darker. An almost sickly sweet tang of ancient magic that curled around my senses and twisted my stomach in knots.

“This place is cursed,” Tristan said, his gaze unfocused, as if he were peering through the veil of time to witness horrors that lay far beyond our immediate reality. “Centuries ago, a battle was fought here. Dark druids ruled the wilds before Camelot even existed. Their magic was unruly, and they slaughtered each other.”

His words conjured memories of the tales Merlin spun for me as children. Stories that had once seemed like silly faerietales, designed to entertain wide-eyed youngsters by the fire. Tales of necromancers wielding death magic, of armies of the undead rising at their command, had filled my dreams with shadows.

But now, standing among the grim remnants of that ancient slaughter, I could almost hear the echoes of their screams weaving through the air.

A glint of something caught my eye, pulling my gaze to a small, intricately carved wooden box nestled among the bleached bones scattered across the ground. Its surface was decorated with symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer in the fading light, as if they held some ancient magic trapped within their designs.

I knelt down, careful not to disturb any more of the grim remains around me. Gently, I brushed aside a skull, its hollow eye sockets staring vacantly into the void. As I reached for the box, I felt an unexpected weight to it; it was heavier than I had anticipated. The wood was smooth to the touch, surprisingly warm against my skin despite the icy air that surrounded us.

With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, I lifted the lid. A soft, ethereal glow spilled forth, illuminating the clearing and casting ghostly shadows that danced across the bones at my feet. The light felt almost alive.

Inside the box, resting delicately on a bed of black velvet, lay a small silver key. Its surface gleamed like a distant star, reflecting the soft glow from within the box. Next to the key was a scrap of parchment, yellowed with age and covered in spidery script that twisted and curled in a way that made it difficult to read.

I picked up the parchment, my heart racing as I tried to decipher the faded ink. For a moment, as I tilted my head to the side, the words began to shift, slowly becoming more legible.

"In the heart of the wood, where shadows grow deep, A secret lies hidden, for seekers to reap. Speak the words of the ancients, in the tongue of the fae, And the path will be opened, to light your way. But beware, fair questers, for not all is right, In this realm of magic, where darkness and light, Intertwine like lovers, in an eternal dance, And the price of knowledge, is a perilous chance."

I read the words aloud, my voice sounding small and thin in the oppressive silence of the Boneyard. As the final syllable left my lips, the surrounding air seemed to thicken, the shadows deepening and twisting in unnatural ways. A low, eerie hum rose from the ground, vibrating through the bones and setting my teeth on edge.

"What's happening?" Galahad asked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt as he scanned the tree line warily. His wide eyes met mine. “Arthur, when did you learn the language of the fae?”

Fae? I glanced down at the words again, but the ink was suddenly gone, and all that was left was a blank parchment.

Before I could respond, the key in the box began to glow, pulsing with an inner light that grew brighter with each passing second. It rose from the velvet, hovering in midair as if suspended by invisible strings.

Suddenly, a beam of light shot out from the key, cutting through the gloom like a blade. It illuminated a narrow path leading deeper into the woods. The ground, littered with bones and gnarled roots, seemed to writhe and reach for us as we watched.

"I guess that's our invitation," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the unease churning in my gut. "The path to the first trial."

Merlin stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the eerie trail. "Arthur, I don't like this."

I shot him a withering glare, my anger still simmering slowly. "Now you want to be cautious? After keeping secrets from me for years? Spare me your concern, Merlin."

I snatched the key out of the air, feeling its weight settle heavily in my palm. The glow dimmed as my fingers closed around it, but the humming in the air only grew louder, more insistent.

"We're wasting time," I snapped, not looking at Merlin. "Leave the horses here for now. We keep moving." I locked eyes with Lancelot, daring him to challenge me.

He didn’t.

Smart man.

I strode forward, my boots crunching on the bones as I followed the illuminated path. After a moment's hesitation, I heard the others fall into step behind me, Merlin bringing up the rear.

The woods closed in around us as we walked, the twisted branches seeming to reach out like grasping fingers. With each step, the air grew colder until my breath was puffing out in icy clouds. Shadows flickered at the edges of my vision, there and gone again before I could focus on them.

We walked in what felt like circles. I could have sworn I’d seen the same tree three times already. Just as I was beginning to wonder if we were trapped in some sort of enchantment, the trail ended abruptly at the mouth of a cave.

The entrance was low and narrow, jagged stone teeth jutted down from above. Runes were carved along the arched stone, glowing with the same eerie light as the key in my hand. I held it up, comparing the symbols. They were identical.

I took a step forward, but Lancelot's hand shot out, gripping my arm. "Wait," he said, his eyes narrowed as he studied the cave mouth. "Those runes...They're wards, meant to keep out the unworthy."

"Unworthy?" Gawain echoed, a note of unease in his voice. "What does that mean?" I met his steel colored eyes, and he forced a smile. “Not that you could be unworthy, my lady.”

I rolled my eyes, fighting a smirk. “Of course not.”

Tristan examined the runes too. "Only those pure of heart and strong of will complete the test. I suspect if you fail, your soul will join the shades that haunt this place."

I felt a flicker of uncertainty, remembering Mordred's taunting words. Was I worthy? After learning of my true parentage, of the lies that had shaped my life, I wasn't so sure anymore.

“How many trials are there between us and the Grail?” I asked the knights.

They shared a heavy look. “It’s different for every person. Some only have one and fail, while others face as many as ten,” Percival said.

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the key until its edges bit into my palm. Ten trials. Ten chances to prove my worth, or to fail and be cast aside like the unwanted bastard I apparently was.

"Well then," I said. "Let's get started, shall we? The faster we get through these trials, the faster we can claim the Grail and be done with this godsforsaken quest."

I marched forward, ignoring the prickle of unease down my spine as I crossed the threshold of the cave. The moment I stepped inside, the runes flared brightly, and a gust of icy wind whipped past me, tugging at my hair and cloak.

The cave was dark, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else, something ancient and musty. I heard the drip of water echoing in the distance, each plunk seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness.

Merlin summoned a wisp of druidlight, the pale gold glow casting eerie shadows on the rough-hewn walls. I pointedly didn't look at him as we moved through, my boots scuffing against the uneven ground.

We hadn't gone more than a dozen paces when the passage opened up into a vast chamber. Towering stone pillars rose up into the darkness, their surfaces covered in more of those glowing runes.

In the center of the chamber stood a massive stone altar, its surface stained dark with what I could only assume was blood or tar. A sense of dread settled in my gut as I approached it, the key in my hand pulsing in time with my racing heart.

"I think I know what this is," Merlin murmured, his voice hushed with reverence and a hint of fear. "I think this is the Wraithstone Cavern. Where druids in the old religion were sent to test themselves before being accepted into their sect. When you read that riddle aloud, you weren’t speaking the common tongue. You spoke the old language of the fae. I think you opened a doorway to this cavern for a reason."

I shot him a sharp look. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

Before he could answer, the chamber filled with a swirling mist, cold and clammy against my skin. Ghostly figures took shape within the haze, their features twisted with anguish. I could vaguely make out human-like shapes, but they writhed and changed. I backed up several steps, my fingers twitching with the urge to grab Excalibur.

"Arthur Pendragon." The voices seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the stone walls. "You who seek the Holy Grail, step forward and face your reckoning."

My legs felt like lead as I forced myself to approach the altar, each step a battle against the instinct to turn and flee. I was used to running from danger, not seeking it out. This was a new world, and if I didn’t dive in head first, I’d probably end up failing my first trial.

As I drew closer, the mist parted, revealing a familiar face. Horror ratcheted through me, and I felt a strangled sob building in my throat. Tears pricked my eyes, but I shook my head, telling myself it wasn’t really her.

"Mother?" I whispered, my voice cracking.

She looked just as she had in my earliest memories, before the fire had stolen her away. But her eyes...they were hollow, accusatory.

"You are no daughter of mine," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "You are the bastard child of a fae whore and a false king. A mistake. An abomination."

I recoiled as if slapped, tears stinging my eyes. "No," I whispered, shaking my head. "No, that's not true. You loved me."

"How could I love a creature like you?" Her beautiful face twisted into a sneer. "I cursed the day you were born, cursed the day you arrived at my doorstep. You ruined my life, stole my future. I died hating you, despising the very sight of you."

A sob tore from my throat, raw and wretched. I sank to my knees; the key tumbled from my numb fingers to clatter against the stone. This couldn't be real. It had to be some sort of trick, some cruel illusion conjured by the cave's ancient magic.

But deep down, an insidious voice whispered that it was true. That I had always been unloved, unwanted. A burden and a blight on the lives of those around me.

"You will fail, Arthur Pendragon." My mother's shade loomed over me, her words dripping with malice. "You are unworthy of the Grail, unworthy of Excalibur, unworthy of the crown you covet. Abandon this quest before it destroys you, as you destroyed me."

I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block out her poisonous words. But they echoed inside my skull, bouncing off the walls of my mind until I thought I might go mad with it.

Through the haze of pain and self-loathing, I heard Merlin's voice, distant but insistent. “Arthur, listen to me. This isn't real. It's the altar. It's showing you your deepest fears, your darkest doubts. You have to fight it!"

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. How could I fight this? How could I fight the truth of what I was, of the curse I had brought upon those I loved?

I wanted to give in, to let the despair and self-hatred consume me until there was nothing left. It would be so easy to just surrender to the pain. To accept my mother's words as the bitter truth. I dropped to my knees with my face in my hands, wanting to scream, but held it in. I wanted to sob, but choked it back.

"You cannot win, child," she sneered. "You are nothing, a mistake that should never have been born. The Grail will never accept a wretched creature like you."

For a long moment, the chamber was silent save for the distant drip of water and the rasp of my breath.

Then, slowly, I began to laugh.

It started as a low chuckle, bubbling up from some hidden pocket inside of me. But it quickly grew, building into a full-throated guffaw that echoed off the stone walls and made the ghostly figures flicker and waver.

The shade of my mother stared at me, her expression shifting from contempt to confusion to anger. "What is this?" she hissed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "You dare to mock me, you insolent brat?"

Still laughing, I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Oh, I'm not mocking you," I said, sucking in a deep breath. "I'm mocking this whole fucking charade." I gestured around at the chamber, at the eerie glow of the runes and the swirling mist. "Did you really think I'd fall for this? That I'm some na?ve little girl who left Camelot with stars in her eyes and a head full of faerietales?"

I took a step forward, then another, closing the distance between myself and the altar. The shade of my mother stood her ground, but I saw the uncertainty flickering in her hollow eyes.

Staring the apparition down, my laughter faded to a wry chuckle. "You almost had me, I'll give you that. For a moment there, I was actually kind of afraid of you. My parents weren't perfect, but they loved me. For the short time I was with them, they loved me. They took me in, protected me, gave me a home when they didn’t have to. And that's more than you, with all your smoke and mirrors, can ever take away from me."

As I spoke, I felt a warmth blossoming at my hip, a gentle heat that pulsed in time with the fierce beat of my heart. Excalibur, the blade that had chosen me, was responding to my resolve.

I sighed, my shoulders dropping as I looked back over my shoulder, meeting the eyes of my five knights. “I was expecting this to be cleverer than this.”

With a metallic ring that echoed through the chamber, I drew Excalibur free. The blade shone with a brilliant, almost blinding radiance, the polished steel reflecting my face back at me.

But it was not the face of a lost little girl, a frightened orphan playing at being a queen. No, the face I saw in that shining blade was one of rage.

I raised Excalibur high; the runes etched into the fuller pulsed with ancient power. The shade of my mother hissed, her form wavering as the holy light washed over her. She raised her hands as if to shield herself. Her face twisted with a mockery of fear and loathing.

"No!" she shrieked.

"Fuck your magic tricks,” I spat, and I swung Excalibur in a shining arc, the blade singing as it cleaved through the air. The moment it touched the shade, she exploded in a burst of sickly greenish light, her final scream fading into silence.

I stood there, chest heaving, as the last wisps of the ghostly figure vanished. The altar stood cold and dark before me, its surface now clear of the accusing specters.

When I lowered Excalibur, the sword suddenly heavy in my grip, the adrenaline began to fade. My hands trembled slightly as I slid the blade back into its scabbard, the runes dulling to a faint shimmer.

I took a shaky breath, trying to center myself. The trial had taken more out of me than I wanted to admit, dredging up painful memories I wasn’t ready to even attempt to sort through yet.

Tristan approached cautiously, his eyes searching my face. "Arthur," he said softly, "are you alright?"

I let out a huff of humorless laughter. "No," I admitted, my voice raw. "But I will be. I think…"

"You completed the first trial. You should be proud of yourself," he said, smiling.

"Does it get easier from here then?" I asked, hating already dreading the answer.

"Oh, absolutely not," he said with a laugh. "The trials are designed to test you, to push you to our limits and beyond. They will challenge everything you think you know about yourself."

I swallowed hard, a flicker of fear sparking in my gut. If this was just the beginning, how was I supposed to survive the rest if this was the easy part?