Realm of

Kings
Camelot Untold
Book 3
KC Kingmaker
OceanofPDF.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2023 by KC Kingmaker

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Cover art by Rocking Book Covers

Join KC Kingmaker’s PNR & Fantasy Romance newsletter (with free eBooks
every week!) at KCKingmaker.com.

OceanofPDF.com
 Books by KC Kingmaker

Briarwitch Academy:

A Whisper Before Dawn

A Dream Before Dawn
A Journey Before Dawn
A Storm Before Dawn

Dragon Shifter Dominion:

Passion of the Summer Dragon

Serenity of the Autumn Dragon
Cold Heart of the Winter Dragon
Vibrance of the Spring Dragon
Rapture of the Sun Dragon

Shadowblade Academy:

Darkness Calls
Darkness Rising
Darkness Falls
Shadows in the Dark
Blood of Darkness

Camelot Untold:

Realm of Sin
Realm of Ruin
Realm of Kings

OceanofPDF.com
 Author’s Note/Trigger Warnings:
This book is thicker than the others. I debated trimming some things, but
since it’s the final book of the series, I ultimately decided I wanted my readers
to be able to get lost in my twisted, smutty Camelot one more time, for as long
as possible!

Just like the two books before it, Realm of Kings has a laundry list of possible
triggers, with dark, questionable content. Please heed the trigger warning list
below. If you have a lot of triggers or are triggered easily, I would recommend
avoiding this series.

For everyone else, here it is:

Abandonment, BDSM, blackmail, blood, bondage, captivity, childhood

trauma, choking/breath play, death, degradation, depression, domestic
violence, domination, dubious consent, gore, gratuitous sex, gratuitous
violence, group sex, implied childhood abuse, implied incest, implied
incestuous abuse, misogyny, objectifying, public sex, sex with monsters, sexual
assault, sleep sex, submission, swords crossing (MM/gay content), violence
against women.

Enjoy!

-KC

OceanofPDF.com
 Characters
Guinevere
Arthur Pendragon, Usurped King of Camelot
Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table
Sir Gawain, Knight of the Round Table from Leudonia
Sir Percival, Knight of the Round Table from Listenoise
Sir Kay, Knight of the Round Table from Sauvage
†
Mordred, King of Camelot
Morgan le Fay, Mordred’s aunt, Arthur’s sister, sorceress
Terrance, scout of Camelot under Mordred’s regime
Baucillas, surgeon of Arthur and Uther before him
Sir Lamorak, Knight of the Round Table
Lady Freya, famous whore of Camelot
Tristan, nephew of Mark of Kernow, Iseult’s lover
Iseult, daughter of King Angus of Hibernia, Tristan’s lover
Merlin, Keeper of Memories, wizard
†
King Ector, King of Sauvage, father of Sir Kay
Lady Mary, servant woman of King Ector
Rhys, childhood friend of Sir Kay, soldier of Sauvage
Albert, soldier of Sauvage
Clara, Evelyn, sisters
†
King Pellinore, King of Listenoise, father of Sir Percival
Princess Dindrane, daughter of King Pellinore
†
King Lot, King of Leudonia, father of Sir Gawain
Queen Anna, Queen of Leudonia, Arthur’s sister
Lord Talbot, a noble of Leudonia
Sir Belview, a noble of Leudonia
†
Queen Agnes, Queen of Sorestan, ally of Morgan le Fay
King Bagdemagus, King of Gorre
King Leodegrance, King of Cameliard
King Mark, King of Kernow
King Meliadus, King of Lyonesse
King Dirac, King of Celis, brother of deceased King Lac
King Angus, King of Hibernia, father of Iseult
King Claudas, King of Berry
King Ban, King of Benoic
King Bors, King of Gannes
King Bran, King of Estrangore
 Locations
Camelot (central Logres)
King’s Wood (petrified forest surrounding Camelot)
Sarum Plains (Salisbury Plains, outside Camelot)
Sauvage (central Logres, north of Camelot)
Forest Sauvage (forest in central Logres)
Castle Sauvage (home of King Ector)
Leudonia (central Logres, north of Sauvage)
Castle Rock (home of King Lot)
Kernow (central Logres, south of Camelot)
Lyonesse (central Logres, south of Kernow)
Sorestan (western Logres, north of Camelot)
Pengwern (city in Sorestan)
Castle Chariot (castle north of Pengwern)
Estrangore (western Logres, north of Sorestan)
Gorre (western Logres, north of Estrangore)
Morgan’s Castle (castle in Gorre)
Cameliard (eastern Logres, north of Camelot)
Listenoise (eastern Logres, north of Cameliard)
Castle Corbenic (castle of King Pellinore)
Medcaut (Lindisfarne, island off the coast of Corbenic)
Dolorous Guard (abandoned Castle in Listenoise)
Hibernia (Ireland)
Manks Sea (Irish Sea)
River Hafren (Severn River)
The Vallum (Hadrian’s Wall)

OceanofPDF.com
 Realm of Ruin Recap
(SPOILERS – Do not read this if you haven’t read
book 2,
Realm of Ruin!)

Where to begin? There are three main plot threads in Realm of Ruin, all of
which end up converging in some way.
To start, Guinevere and Lancelot are on their own, a few days out from
Camelot. Lancelot has just rescued Guin from the wicked Sir Agravain. He
teaches her sword fighting and hunting and riding in ways Guin never learned
from her other knights, because she was too busy fucking them. Oops.
They go on a grand adventure, heading north from the outskirts of
Camelot. They run across bandits, rescue a “slave girl” named Iseult, escape
goblins, make their way through different cities, befriend the starry-eyed lover
of Iseult, named Tristan. Guin gets captured because of Tristan’s betrayal,
while Lancelot is almost killed because of it. They make amends, become
allies, and Lancelot kills his old buddy Sir Galehaut in a heart-wrenching battle
to save Guin.
All of this is in the name of finding the Old One, Merlin, the Keeper of
Memories, somewhere north.
Oh, and along the way, Guin has very lewd dreams involving all of her
different knights in various compromising positions. What she can’t fuck in
real life, she fucks in her dreams. Must be nice. She also learns backstory on
each of them.
The second plotline involves King Arthur, Sir Gawain, Sir Percival, Sir Kay,
Sir Dagonet, and Baucillas, trying to find Guinevere. They’re also outside
Camelot (on the opposite side as Lance and Guin), staring in.
Arthur gets the bright idea that Guin might still be in Camelot, captured.
So after just escaping his overthrow by the skin of their teeth, they go back
into the lion’s den.
 Turns out Guin isn’t there. They learn that from Baucillas (Arthur’s trusty
surgeon), Lady Freya (a famous whore), and Sir Lamorak (a knight who
escaped Mordred). Those three will help build a rebellion for Arthur while he
and his knights go to find their lover. They escape Camelot and head north,
looking for Guin and also Merlin.
They run into all sorts of trouble along the way, fighting scouts and soldiers
and generally losing their shit. Percy takes some sexual punishment from
Gawain and Kay, and as the days drag on without Guin—even as they get
further from Camelot’s cursed Rot—they start to get frustrated, angry, and
lose their minds a bit.
The third plotline involves Mordred and his attempts to find Guinevere to
keep her for his own, and find his uncle Arthur to kill him. All along the way,
Morgan le Fay, his aunt, is pulling the strings of his fledgling kingdom.
Big plot points:
Lancelot is not entirely human! And he’s really angry!
Guin reunites with her guys, and it’s lewd as hell. Arthur and Lancelot aren’t
on great terms. They get into a fight with Mordred and his wretchkin mob,
win, but lose sweet Sir Dagonet. Baucillas is captured in Camelot!
Merlin has secrets—a lot of them! They involve a curse and a cycle that
goes all the way back to Guin’s ancestors.
Morgan le Fay is not really Mordred’s aunt—she’s someone much closer!
Mordred gets the nod from the other kings to become the official ruler of
Camelot.
Uh oh! It’s on, baby.
Enjoy the finale of the Camelot Untold trilogy!

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 1
Guinevere

Shit is not going well for Team Guin.

Recently, I’ve been feeling less like the Ever Queen and more like the Never
Queen.
We’ve been roaming the beautiful Logres countryside for weeks. Or at least
it seems like weeks. I’ve lost track of the sunrises and sunsets that mark our
days; lost track of the nightly campfires blurring by, as we huddle next to one
another and speak in hushed voices.
All I know is we’ve been constantly moving—never safe enough to stay in
one place for too long.
This is nothing like the Knights of the Round Table legends I know from
my world, where people like King Arthur and Sir Lancelot, Gawain, Percival,
and Kay are spoken of with reverence and gallantry.
My proverbial knights in shining armor have been relegated to hiding in the
shadows, ducking among the trees. Hunting and foraging for scraps of food.
Bickering, growing more and more frustrated as the days pass and the
pressures mount.
It’s getting exasperating living as nomads and vagabonds—outlaws cast to
the fringes of the realm, if only so we’ll be safe.
This isn’t me, I recognize one night while sitting at another sputtering
campfire. It’s not any of us.
I told myself once I won’t be safe here any longer. By design. I was safe and meek in my
world for too long. Lacking agency. Look where it got me. Destitute and depressed. Run
over.
I won’t let that same fate befall me in this magical land of monsters, monstrous men,
and medieval politics. There’s no room for tiptoeing around here like a mouse. The people
who do get squashed like rodents. I can’t be one of them. Not if we’re going to survive.
I puff my cheeks out and sigh, staring into the snapping flames. Hugging
my knees to stave off the chill, I gaze through the swirling smoke to the
landscape around us, cast purple from the silver moon. Prairie grass shudders
over the surrounding hillsides, flattened by the breeze. With some sadness
tugging my heart, I notice the lush greenery of Logres outside Camelot has
started to lose its splendor.
Nomads, vagabonds, outlaws. We’re more than that.
A few pairs of eyes glance in my direction at the sound of my heavy sigh.
Percival and Lancelot, in particular, look worried.
I’m not ready to talk yet.
We’ve been desperately trying to gather allies. It hasn’t been going well. It’s
abundantly clear to all of us, I think, we’re losing this arms race against “King”
Mordred.
Going over the past few days while the flames draw me in, I recall the back-
alley meetings we’ve had with townsfolk in the area. Random farmers, woodsmen,
and blacksmiths aren’t going to build us an army. We need to think beyond that. Bigger.
We haven’t gotten word from Sir Lamorak or Lady Freya or Baucillas in
Camelot. Our insiders, who we hoped would be building some kind of
grassroots rebellion in the wake of Mordred stealing Arthur’s throne and
crown.
If they are fomenting rebellion, we’ll never hear about it way out here.
We’re in the dark, meandering somewhere in the northern lands of Logres.
Keeping to the edges.
Playing it safe.
When I look over I see Lancelot and Arthur sharing looks with each other.
They’ve been doing it ever since we came together as a group following the
big battle with Mordred, where Sir Dagonet died and Lancelot rescued us.
What do those silent looks say? My brow furrows. Are they leering with trepidation?
Spite? Hostility?
Those two are difficult to read in the best of conditions, and almost
impossible at night with only the flickering fire to illuminate the shadowed
lines of their chiseled faces.
I can’t have infighting among my men. I simply can’t allow that. Something
has to budge. We need a fucking break.
These two are the alphas of this wild pack of wolves. Despite their uneasy
alliance in my name, there’s something holding them back. I have to find out
what it is.
There can only be one alpha in a pack, right?
 Arthur is the would-be king. The clearest choice to lead us. Arthur is Daddy,
yet Lancelot . . . he’s a fucking demon. We’ve seen the terrifying black wings; the
otherworldly jaws and talons and maw of that man when he’s in his darkest
form. How can a man—king or otherwise—compete with that?
I think I know what’s keeping them cautious. Me, obviously, since they both feel
they have a claim on me.
It’s a two-way street, though. The Oath of Devotion means these five
knights are devoted to me. And me to them. So why are Arthur and Lancelot
having trouble reconciling that, unlike Gawain, Percy, and Kay?
We’re being run ragged across this hostile land. We’ve even talked of
splitting up, to try and get more things done more efficiently . . .
Fuck all that noise. I’ll never give the go-ahead. After the horrible events of
the previous few months—being separated for what felt like eons; losing
Dagonet in a battle against Mordred—the guys promised they’d never leave
my side. I intend to hold them to that promise.
Still, it’s aggravating. Following our miraculous victory over Mordred,
thanks to demon-boy Lancelot swooping in out of nowhere to save the day,
things were supposed to be hopeful. Better. So what went wrong? Why are we still
frustrated and making no progress, kept back by ourselves?
I’m not sure what my next move should be. Everyone looks at me like I
have all the answers, when I’m the most clueless of us all . . .
And that’s what finally sparks something inside me, getting the cogs
moving in the right direction. I need to take control, I think, nodding my chin
against my kneecaps. If Arthur and Lancelot want to play out this dick-measuring
contest, and can’t figure out a winner, I need to be the one to call the shots.
“We are only as safe as I am,” I mutter under my breath, hardly realizing
I’m saying it out loud. If they’re worried about me getting hurt, shattering like a fragile
glass doll, they won’t be willing to make tough decisions, because those decisions might put me
in harm’s way.
We are only as safe as they are keeping me. Only as safe as our weakest link. Bringing
that idea to the next step, I think, In order to move past this rut, we need to step out of
our comfort zone and make a big fucking leap.
“What was that, little one?” Arthur asks, glancing over. He’s directly to my
left, a confused expression slanting his brow.
My head pops up from my knees, jolting everyone with the suddenness of
it. “We’re thinking too small.”
 I say it like it’s some kind of grand proclamation . . . and I’m rewarded with
scratching heads, a couple of shared looks between the knights. They look
pityingly at me, as if to say, “Oh, you sweet, summer child.”
Their expressions piss me off.
We’ve never said anything like that at any of these campfires. Never gotten
our problems out in the open, because these guys don’t know how to do that
unless you hold their fucking hands. The emotionally inept men in my world don’t
hold a fucking candle to the medieval knights of Logres.
“We’re in denial about the state we’re in,” I say, trying to clarify my stance.
Their eyes bore into me, smoldering, melting me from the inside out. I clear
my throat and square my shoulders to speak with more confidence, lest I
shrivel up and die. “We’re pussyfooting around the real issues and the real
things holding us back. Going through the motions. So, I’m saying we need to
think bigger. These little moves we’re making aren’t paying dividends.”
Their expressions turn from pitying to curious.
Lancelot pops a berry into his mouth and leans back casually, arms
propped behind him. “All right, fireheart. I’ll bite. Keep going.”
Butterflies fly in my stomach. Why does Lance’s curiosity—that slight curl
to his lip that makes me want to ride his face—make me so nervous?
Maybe it’s because I’ve never held a position of power in this group before. Despite what
they always say about me, it’s clear who the leader is. I nod along with my thoughts.
That’s the kind of power dynamic I need to change with these guys.
“We can’t keep talking to farmers and tailors,” I say, trying to muster some
confidence by turning away from Lancelot and addressing the entire campfire.
The looks I’m getting from Kay, Percy, and Gawain aren’t much more
helpful to my wellbeing or purity. These assholes are downright devilish.
I flare my nostrils, peeved they’re looking at me like a meal—a plaything
they’re humoring before devouring. Rather than an equal. “We need to speak
to kings, because we are fucking kings.” My eyes shoot over to Arthur. “Or at
least one of us is.”
Gawain runs a hand through his straggly black hair. “Once upon a time,
maybe. Now, we’re just—”
“Five wandering assholes and an outsider girl,” I cut in, lilting my voice and
rolling my eyes. “I know. You guys never let me forget it. We can’t keep talking
about ourselves like that. It’s killing us before we even have a chance to start!
Where’s your damn fire?” I wave my hand at the fire in front of us, trying to
drum up some sort of metaphor.
A small growl leaves Arthur’s lips. “You sound frustrated, Guin.”
“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
His head tilts. His icy, silver gaze has turned molten with heat. “Yes. I am.
But if I do what I desire to do to take out my frustrations, you’ll never finish
what you have to say.”
An alarmed squeal almost rips out of my throat. I keep it in. “And . . . why
is that?”
“Because you’ll be too busy screaming our names, little girl.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 2
Arthur

Guinevere can’t just talk like this—spouting off with that adorable pinch to
her angry, pink face—without me wanting to stuff her pretty mouth full of
my cock. When she’s like this, filled with fire and brimstone, it makes me want
to reward her by pumping her full of cum, until she’s content and mindless
and can’t walk right.
It’s probably the Rot buried inside me, making me think like an absolute
savage.
I love to see this from her. The moment her pent-up frustration snaps and
lets loose. It’s not the first time she’s done it, yet it’s been a while since she’s
acted out. It awakens something primal inside me, and it’s all I can do to keep
my cock down.
She’s not wrong, calling us out like this. Trying to light a fire under our
morose asses. We’ve been piddling around the northern countryside for too
long, without making any discernible progress.
We’ve amassed a smattering of peasants and soldiers who claim they’re
loyal to the True King of Camelot, but what does that mean when we have no
banner to call them to?
I’m eager to hear Guin’s solution. I’d love to give her more control over the
reins, but she needs to prove she can ride the saddle of leadership, first.
When I stare into her face, it catches her by surprise. She stutters, blushes,
and shrinks within herself.
“Go ahead, spitfire,” I say, granting her a small nod, hoping she’ll take the
control she so desperately seeks. “Tell us your solution.”
She shakes her head and blinks rapidly, as if clearing all the dirty thoughts
trying to latch onto her mind. Then she shrugs. “I just did. Talk to kings,
rather than the nobodies we’ve been finding. They’re getting us nowhere.”
“Kings, eh?”
 “Yes. We need to be treated as their equals.”
“Currently, we’re not their equals. That’s our problem. We don’t have the
status to demand audiences with the heads of kingdoms.”
I’m being contrarian for the sake of it—pushing her, trying to make her see
this through. Perhaps there’s a little teasing in my voice, too, which only spurns
her anger.
When she throws her arms up, I hope it’s not a sign of her admitting
defeat. Too soon for that, little one.
“Then we do something that demands their respect!” Her voice bounces
off the hills. “Show them we’re not fucking around.”
The men around the fire chuckle. My eyes sweep across the flames,
catching each of theirs, and we smirk. They love this side of her as much as I
do. We all want to do the same thing to her, and it’s not pretty. It’s ugly and
destructive and beautiful and invigorating.
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “Let’s take this to its logical conclusion.
Which kings can we trust? Most of them are allied with Mordred already.
They’ll kill us on sight.”
“Some of them already tried,” Gawain butts in.
“Then we have to convince them they’re making the wrong decision,”
Guinevere replies, like it’s the easiest thing to do. “Convince them of our
strength.”
“The strength of four nomadic knights, a king without a crown, and a
foreigner who fancies herself a princess?” Kay grumbles.
Yes, it’s a line often repeated among us—to Guinevere’s chagrin—but it
bears repeating because it’s true.
This time, instead of an abrupt outburst, Guin takes her time. She sits with
those words while we stare at her, until her eyes narrow with mischief.
It’s another expression of hers I can’t get enough of.
“I’m not just an outsider, though, am I?”
My brow scrunches. The others look just as interested and curious.
“Everyone wants me.”
Gawain snorts. “Your humility is awe-inspiring, little lark.”
“No, you misunderstand me.” She flaps a hand in the air. “They don’t want
me like you guys want me. They want me for their schemes. Their individual
ambitions and goals.” She taps her fingers on her knee. “Morgan le Fay needs
me to operate the Holy Grail. She’s at a standstill until she has me. We know
she’s pulling the strings behind Mordred. Other kings want me to get to
Morgan—for access.”
Lancelot leans forward from his reclined position. “And? What can we do
with that information?”
Guin stares into the fire, pensive, lips pursed. “We position me where the
kings feel they can benefit from having me. Like they can use me as a
bargaining chip. Make them believe they’re smarter than us—that they’re
winning the political war and have got one over on us. Then pull the rug out
from under them.” She makes a pulling motion.
My initial reaction is alarm. I want to shut it down. She’s speaking broadly,
with overarching ideas lacking detail, but I know what she’s suggesting at its
core. What she’s suggesting means putting her in a precarious, dangerous
position—something I’ve been trying to keep from doing this entire time.
Without saying it, she’s admitting she’s through with our coddling. She
hates being the one to hold us back.
I admire her strength, even against the glare I give her.
The fire snaps and crackles. Chips spark away from the burning wood.
Percival says, “Who, pray tell, do you recommend we plot with first,
snoop?”
Her shoulders go high. “You’re the natives of this land. You tell me. Who’s
most likely to listen to us? Who needs only a little convincing to join us,
perhaps, rather than a king already deep in Mordred’s pockets?”
We look around at each other. No one wants to be the first to speak, for
fear of angering the others. Even in a group as tight as ours, tiny battles are
always present. Guin is drawing the battle line, daring us to step over it. It’s
another dangerous move.
She’s good at this. I smile viciously. Who ever knew my little girl could be such a
provoking voice? When I see the hesitation on her face, the small way she bites
her lip nervously, I know what she’s thinking. Say it, girl.
“Your fathers.”
A beat of utter silence—
Voices split the night, everyone at once. Percival and Gawain throw their
hands up. Kay follows with a guttural belly-snort. Lancelot crosses his arms.
My smile widens at the immediate chaos Guinevere’s answer brings out
among my men. It’s the first time in a fortnight I’ve seen them so animated.
 “Our fathers hate us,” Gawain says incredulously. He points at Percival.
“King Pellinore widowed the sunflower’s mother and made him grow up in a
backwoods fucking forest.” Next, Kay. “King Ector beat anyone who
disagreed with him, and nearly ki—”
“Careful, little knight,” Kay grumbles.
Gawain cuts himself off, thumbs his own chest. “My loving father sent me
on a ship as an infant to die in the middle of the sea.”
Guinevere can’t argue with that. She knows their history—intimately, since
her dream-visions with Merlin—and I can tell she regrets what she said.
I don’t, though. I don’t want her to stop, either. This is the kick in the ass
we need.
When she glances at me with wide eyes full of fear, hoping for aid, I decide
to chirp up. “Be incredulous if you wish. You know she’s right. Men like King
Mark of Kernow, King Bagdemagus of Gorre, they have no allegiance to us.
No reason to help us. Percival?” My eyes move to my golden-haired, ever-
optimistic knight. “Your father is old. King Pellinore is dying. He had twelve
fucking children. How many of them remain?”
Percival sighs, looking shamefaced at the fire. “Last I heard? Two.”
“And you’re one of them. All his sons are either dead or missing, slain from
his inane, misguided quests. When you think of Listenoise—”
“Take heed, my king,” Percival says with a glower.
I haven’t gotten that sort of bite from him in ages. I appreciate it, yet I’m
not about to suppress myself because he’s hearing truths he can’t handle.
Guin is right. We’re getting weak. It’s time to turn that around. “When you think of
Listenoise,” I repeat slowly, “you think of a dying kingdom. Not much unlike
Camelot. Could you not be the heir Pellinore seeks? Could you not help
regenerate that severed bond.”
Across the fire, Percival’s hands have closed into fists, grabbing at dirt. He’s
angry, and I’m challenging him, but he doesn’t rise to my bait. Not against his
liege.
To my right, Lancelot speaks. “That’s all very easy for you to say, Arthur.
Your father is dead.”
Abrupt gasps.
My head reels. I match Lancelot’s gaze. I could smack the fucking scars off
his face, chase them away by slamming my fist into—
 “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Guin interjects, sensing the red curtain falling
in my mind. Luckily she’s sitting between us, arms raised. I have to wonder if
her position at the campfire was chosen like that by design.
Percival stands, gaining everyone’s attention. He points down at Gawain.
“What about Gawain? King Lot was an ally of Uther’s for decades. We can’t
let that alliance vanish, can we? Lot hates Mordred, for whatever reason, so
why would Lot agree to help him?” He smirks. Crosses his arms. “You may
call me sunflower, Gawain, but you are his golden child.”
Percival has become more forward with Gawain recently. It’s . . . interesting.
He’s flipped his submissiveness, ever since the reunion session with Merlin’s
vines, following Dagonet’s death. I’m convinced he never again wants to feel
like he needs protection.
He makes a fair point about King Lot and his relationship with Gawain and
Mordred.
Gawain jumps to his feet, unwilling to be called out. He grabs Percival by
the collar and spits his words out through clenched teeth, while gesturing
across the fire with his other hand. “Yes, and I’m also standing shoulder to
shoulder with the man who killed three of Lot’s fucking sons.”
Lancelot looks away, guilt warring with anger on his face.
Guinevere’s head whips from man to man. She’s lost control of the thread.
It’s not her fault.
I think we need this. Maybe Gawain will punch Percival, or they’ll end up on
all fours fucking each other until daybreak. Maybe it’s what we need. Maybe I’ll
throttle Lancelot, for no other reason than the pent-up hostility we’ve shared
with one another for the past few weeks. Even if we’ve welcomed him back
into the brotherhood, trust isn’t rebuilt overnight. I can’t magically wave my
hand and make everything amicable between us.
Lancelot tries to come to Guinevere’s aid, to lessen the tension.
“Objectively speaking, Guinevere makes fair points. We’ve been too scared
and hesitant, tiptoeing around the fringes of the realm, searching for allies
anywhere we can find them. All but in the places we need to be looking. We
need to make the kings see the light.”
Gawain tips his head back, barks an ugly laugh, and raises his hands to the
sky. “Again, easy for you to say, Lancelot. You’re a fucking demon! Who in
Avalon even knows where your father hails from? Shall we descend to the
depths of the nether world to pry him for assistance?”
 “Would that I could . . .” Lancelot mutters.
Things have gotten heated, fast. I give Guin a tiny nod and a smirk. The
fear on her face is evident, and she looks confused why I’m looking at her like
that.
I’m proud of her for riling up these sorry sacks.
Guinevere knows unraveling when she sees it. She’s been part of it.
Whether it’s Gawain and Percival about to come to blows, or me and Lancelot,
or Gawain and Lancelot, none of it is good news.
Then, in an abrupt turn that shocks everyone, it’s the least likely candidate
for peace who becomes the mediator.
“Fine!” the voice bellows, ripping through the angry din of chatter around
the campfire. Everyone’s eyes swerve to Sir Kay, sitting there with his arms
folded over his burly barrel-chest. The reckless one. The impulsive one. “You
nagging fucking twats,” he growls. Spit flies onto his red beard. “I see your
tricks.”
Everyone glances around, confused. Tricks?
“We’ll speak with my father,” he says, with a firm, decisive nod. “We’ll go to
Castle Sauvage.”
After a beat, I scrub my hand through my beard. Gingerly, I say, “Kay . . .
while I respect your decision . . . your father might be the man most deeply
embedded with Mordred out of all the kings.”
Gawain sits. Scratches his cheek. We’re tiptoeing again. “He already tried to
kill us for roaming too close to Castle Sauvage. Took an arrow in my fucking
arm for that.”
Kay shrugs. “So what? Perhaps we made him second-guess his decision to
go against us when we killed the men he sent after us.”
Percival plops down next to Gawain, no longer wanting to be the only man
standing. “I don’t think it works like that, brother. King Ector summered in
Leudonia to speak with Lot about joining Mordred. Remember?”
“I know. He’s a proper fuckhead, my father.”
I say, “Either way, it’s not a very convincing basis on which to start an
alliance, Kay. I understand—”
“Yes? What do you understand, brother?”
I’m taken aback. Stunned silent. I’m still his king and foster brother, after
all.
 “We have to do something,” he continues. “The little lamb is right. Someone
has to step up. You’re all being pussies, so I guess it has to be me.” He grunts,
stands, and begins to wander off. We watch him go, and he knows we’re
watching, so before he reaches his tent, he shoots one more barb over his
shoulder, his lips curling under his bushy beard.
“I’d rather endure torture at the hands of my vile father than hear you
assholes bitching and moaning for a second longer. The Knights of the Round
Table aren’t a group of tongue-flapping noblewomen spreading gossip in the
parlor room. We’re a brotherhood. Fucking act like it.” He sneers, scoffing in
our direction, shaming us. “I daresay King Uther is rolling in his grave right
now, brothers.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 3
Guinevere

We each have our own individual tents, which we’ve gathered from the various
towns we’ve passed through, because Arthur refuses to let us stay in any town
inn. He doesn’t want us getting cornered, like what happened to me and
Lancelot in Pengwern. He always wants an escape route available. Thus, we’ve
been on an extended camping excursion for weeks.
We returned to Pengwern recently, and were basically run out of town
when they saw Lancelot.
I think the mini-tent-city idea is silly. We should just invest in a big-ass
circus tent so we can all sleep together.
Alas, I don’t make the rules.
When big man Kay wanders into his too-small tent, the desire to follow
him is overwhelming. He’s put every man here in their place. A total mic drop.
He interrupted his king and brother. You know when he does that, things are
at a breaking point.
The camp is quiet once he’s gone. The guys look ashamed, sighing, carding
their hands through their hair, scratching their cheeks, rubbing the backs of
their necks. Shifting awkwardly where they sit.
No one has the balls to say Kay is right. Their little temper tantrum—
however necessary it might have been—makes us look childish.
I never expected that out of Sir Kay. Never thought he would be the
“bigger man,” so to speak. Of course, he’s the biggest man here, physically.
Mentally? He’s always been the stoic sentinel marred by the occasional
outburst of recklessness and rage. A man’s man. A knight’s knight?
Now, his call-out and exit has me feeling all sorts of things. He opened up
the floodgates of this campsite, and now I want him to flood my gates. Lord
knows I’m already hot and bothered by all this dick-swinging and testosterone.
I pop up from the fire. Everyone looks to me.
 “I’ll go talk to him,” I announce.
As I’m walking away, I hear hushed voices. Gawain, lightly scoffing, “Yeah,
I’m sure she’s just going to talk to him,” and Percival chuckling.
I smirk, sway my ass a bit so they can see what they’re missing, and go to
Kay’s tent. I open the flap without asking.
Kay is sitting on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the
ground. Thumbs pressed together, deep in thought. He doesn’t acknowledge
me when I enter.
I stand at the entrance, feeling vulnerable, trying to take command of my
body. I have a fierce urge to walk over and straddle his lap—to take his mind
off things.
“They deserved it, you know,” I murmur.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t feel sorry.”
“I don’t.” His head tilts in my direction. It’s dark in here, but I can make
out the gleam of his green eyes, darker than my emerald orbs. “Why are you
here, little lamb?”
I suck my upper lip and click my tongue. Take a step toward him. It only
takes one step to get my body close to his in this small space. Heat emanates
off his large frame. Or maybe that’s the remnant of the fire from outside.
“I feel you deserve a reward for being the bigger man. For supporting me
and telling it like it is.” I stand in front of him and tip his chin with my hands.
Looking down at his bearded face, my brow furrows. He looks almost like he
did in my lewd dream at Castle Sauvage—but not the naked, horny giant
splayed out on the bed, eager to be ridden.
Rather, he looks like the helpless, hopeless child hiding in a nook in the
hallway, desperate to drown out the sounds of his mother being beaten
downstairs by his wicked father. There’s vulnerability in his flat expression I’ve
never seen before. He looks like he could curl up against my bosom and cry
himself to sleep.
My hand ghosts under his chin, trailing up his cheek. “Oh, Kay. You poor,
poor man.”
His face hardens. A flicker of his bushy red eyebrows steals the
vulnerability and replaces it with yearning. “Don’t pity me, little lamb. You’ll
regret it.”
 My brow lifts. “Will I? Like I regretted all the other times you tried breaking
me?”
He stands. Towers over me, so I have to crane my neck. Our bodies are
inches apart, his dwarfing mine. I want to wrap myself in him like an oversized
blanket. Feel his safety and protection.
“The Knights of the Round Table will be all right, Guinevere. We will be all
right.”
I swallow thickly. I can’t remember the last time he called me by my name,
if ever. It’s always been a pet name.
“I know,” I eke out.
“You don’t have to be scared. Not with us.”
“I know, Kay. That’s not why I’m in here.”
A low, deep laugh rumbles in his belly, hardly moving past his lips. He takes
my chin, dips his head, and kisses me. His beard tickles, a surprisingly soft,
tender kiss from the huge man. When he pulls away, my heart is racing.
Then he averts his gaze.
A pang of rejection swallows me up.
His eyes meet mine and stab into my soul. “As much as I want to rip your
clothes off, bend you over this cot, and rail you until you can’t walk out of
here—and I assure you, I will—there are more . . . pressing matters.”
Doubt flickers across my face. I say nothing.
“I need to think about what I’m going to say to my father,” he explains.
“Trust me, you don’t want to be here for that. The problem isn’t you—”
“It’s you?” I finish, frustration bubbling.
He nods gently. “I can’t fucking think at all when you’re in the same vicinity
as me, looking at me with those daredevil eyes.”
Oh. Well, that drenches my frustration real quick, as well as drenching my
insides.
His next words seem hard to push out. “So . . . bring those eyes elsewhere.
To someone who needs it more.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “To whom?”
He lets out a deep sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Don’t
act blind, little lamb. Lancelot and Arthur are ready to rip each other to shreds.
We all see it. The unrest between them is swelling, causing more harm to our
brotherhood than anything else. There’s only one person who can stop it from
escalating. And it’s not me.”
 He finishes by staring daggers at me, icing my blood.
I gulp over a thick knot in my throat.
“Go.” His hard face softens as he gently pushes me, causing me to
backpedal a step. A smile shows under his beard. “I appreciate your eagerness
to ride my cock as a celebration for me agreeing to do the bare minimum.”
But . . . I think, trailing off, remembering the first time I met Kay, when I
tried to convince him to keep me out of imprisonment in Camelot. “I will
break you, little lamb . . . but it will be under my terms.”
“But those two need you more than I do,” he says now. “So bring your
daredevil eyes to them, little lamb. Make them remember why you’re the Ever
Queen, and why you’re the one in charge.”

† † †

When I shuffle through the campsite outside, the fire is a smoldering ember,
sending streams of smoke into the plum sky.
The guys are gone. Retired for the night.
I hear muffled moans to my left. When I glance over, I see a tent shaking.
There must be a candle lit inside, because I can make out two silhouettes on
the white tarp. One is on his knees, with a certain long-haired silhouette in
front of him, rocking back and forward on all fours.
Gawain is fucking Percival into submission. Reminding him who the
dominant man is in that pairing. Percival’s moans are strained, choked, and I
realize that’s because Gawain is pulling his hair. The fleshy claps of the dark
knight’s balls and hips against Percival’s pale ass rings out, neither of them
ashamed or abashed in their carnal display.
I imagine they assumed I’d be in Kay’s tent for a while and, wanting to give
us some privacy, took matters into their own hands.
I pause, growing wetter by the second, watching them from the dying light
of the campfire. It would be so easy to march over there, pop inside, and ride
those horny knights until we were delirious and satiated. So simple to wedge
myself between their big hard cocks and come my brains out until dawn
breaks.
Kay’s words play in my head. “Make them remember why you’re the Ever Queen.”
He wasn’t talking about Gawain or Percy. Hell, those two are doing fine. The
fighting and back-and-forth banter between them is part of their game.
 The game always ends up like this. I envy the ease with which they crawl to
each other like star-crossed lovers no matter how heated they get or how much
they push each other’s buttons.
No, there are two others in this camp who require my attention more than
—
“Enjoying the show?”
The voice startles me so badly I jolt and spin around with my hand flying
to my throat. I can just make out the dark lines of the man lounging behind
the dying fire, sitting in the shadows, as he’s wont to do.
“Jesus Christ, Lance,” I gasp. “You could warn a girl, you know.”
I hear him smile more than see it. “I always knew you were a voyeur,
fireheart. Me? I prefer a bit more visibility.”
I take a step toward the ashen fire, giving into his request, letting the
moonlight bathe over me. With my hands on my hips, I say, “Lucky for you,
you’re just the man I wanted to see.”
His head slants. “Already finished with Kay? That was fast.”
“He didn’t want me.”
Lancelot chuckles in the darkness. “I find that impossible to believe. We all
burn for you like the molten core of a volcano. Kay is no different.”
“He has a lot on his mind.”
Lancelot is quiet for a moment. Contemplating. Then he leans forward,
arms wrapping around his knees. His head juts into the sliver of moonlight
slashing across the embers. There’s a curious expression on his beautiful,
scarred face. “What is it you wanted to talk about, my love?”
“Arthur.”
He tsks and recoils back into the shadows. “Fucking hell. I was hoping you
wouldn’t say that.”
I take a step around the campfire. Stand over him so he has to crane his
neck to look at me in front of the moon.
“I didn’t say all I wanted to do was talk.”
His gold eyes darken until they’re nearly amber. “Right here, then, for all to
see and hear?” He spreads his arms wide. “Are you an exhibitionist as well as a
voyeur, fireheart?”
He’s acting quite cocky, which makes it even better. He has no idea what I
want to do to him—what I have planned. My confidence is riding a wave I’m
not used to cresting. It’s time he learns who’s boss in this arrangement.
 “Make them remember why you’re the one in charge.”
“The two go hand in hand, Lance.” I smirk and lift a hand from my hip so
I can help him to his feet. “But, no. Take me to your tent. You wouldn’t want
the others to see what I have in store for you.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 4
Lancelot

Guinevere all but drags me to my tent, gripping my hand like I’m going to run
away if she doesn’t hold tight.
I imagine all the things I want to do to her—vicious, abhorrent, lustful
things. Then I think of the words left unsaid since the reckoning on the plains
that day, when I swooped down from the clouds like a harbinger of death.
The way I left her, heartbroken and defeated. She still doesn’t know where I
went; how my rage boiled, my beast won out, and I slaughtered those people
in Castle Chariot.
Many of those men and women could have been innocent. Could have
even been against capturing Guin and dangling her in a cage as a gift for
Morgan le Fay.
I didn’t give anyone a chance for atonement, explanation, or redemption. I
was judge, jury, executioner, and I should feel ashamed for it.
Yet, I don’t. The mere possibility those soldiers could have touched what
belongs to me—my fireheart—is enough to justify my actions, in my mind. I
just hope Guinevere thinks the same when I finally spill the truth to her.
In the weeks following that fateful night, things have seemed . . . different,
between us. Strained, perhaps. The fiery relationship we had is just out of my
grasp, like a raindrop you keep trying to catch with your tongue but keep
missing.
The death of Sir Galehaut, the death of Sir Dagonet, the death of my
humanity. The arrival of King Arthur and the bar he has inadvertently thrust
between us. These are all things we need to discuss.
As Guin pulls me inside my tent, I get the feeling she isn’t in the mood to
talk about any of it. She spins around and pushes my chest. I stumble against
the edge of the cot and drop to my ass on the bed, blinking with wide eyes.
“What’s gotten into you, fireheart?”
 She stares down at me with pursed lips and brows arched angrily, her arms
folded over her breasts. Her lightly freckled face would be frightening if she
wasn’t so damn adorable.
For a moment, she says nothing. She simply examines me with those big
green eyes. I wonder what she’s thinking. I’m not sure if she wants to pounce
on me or rip my throat out. Maybe both?
I’d thank her for either treatment, honestly.
The first times we fucked were torrid, rough affairs. Cracked wood of the
cart as I pounded mercilessly into her, making her scream and tremble in utter
delight. Waking her from sleep with my cock stuffed deep inside her. Pushing
her halfway out the back of our wagon to let the rain sizzle on her body while
I dominated her lower half.
This is different—a parallel to how our relationship has devolved and
changed. She doesn’t look like the meek little mouse stammering as she asks
me to sleep with her in the cart. There’s no trepidation in her eyes or face.
I hope I haven’t lost her. Hope I haven’t broken the trust we built over
weeks on the road together. The connection we forged over battle, adventure,
and conflict.
Doesn’t she know I would worship the ground she walks on, if she would
only allow me the honor?
“Say something, Guin,” I choke out.
This waiting is becoming deadly. Unbearable. My knee starts to bounce on
its own, my heart slams against my ribcage. I reach out to her, slowly, itching
to put my hand on her waist and draw her closer—
And she snatches my hand out of the air. Holds it there, glowering down at
me. “You knights always think you’re in command.” Her voice is throaty and
thick.
In the past, that’s because I have been. But there’s nothing about this
situation that tells me I’m in command. She has changed the dynamic, as if the
silence lingering between us has opened a void I’m forced to fill with all the
things I regret and wish I could take back.
“Do you love me, Lancelot?”
“You know I do.”
She lets my hand go. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I awkwardly fold
them in my lap. An outsider looking in would see me sitting on the edge of the
cot and declare me submissive to this woman.
 If that’s what it takes to have her again, I’ll gladly submit.
“Then why do you make things so difficult with Arthur, even after he’s let
you back into the Knights of the Round Table? Things are supposed to be
different now.”
I bow my head in shame. “Were it only so easy, fireheart. I’m . . . it’s . . .”
“Yes?”
“Difficult. For me, I mean. I know you deserve anything you want—
everything you want. Yet, in my eyes, I want you to be mine.”
She pumps her hip out, hands going to them. “Arthur is possessive too, you
know.”
“Yes. Therein lies the issue between us, I’d wager.”
“You both fancy yourselves leaders of the pack.”
When she puts it like that, I feel silly.
“You’re not the leaders, though, are you?” she says.
My head rises to meet her gaze. “No.”
“Tell me, then.” She scoots closer, until she lingers inches away, close
enough I could palm her breasts before she could react.
My fingers curve into my palms, biting the skin, resisting the urge. “I am
nothing without you, my queen.”
The words are easier to say than I thought they’d be.
“You don’t serve Arthur, even as a Knight of the Round Table.” She says it
as a statement, not a question.
“No, I don’t.”
“Who do you serve, then?”
Fire ignites inside me, flaring my cock to life. This is more than the bratty,
teasing Guinevere I know. This is someone who has found the confidence to
truly speak her mind. She’s not stuttering or making any qualms about it.
This is a woman in charge. The woman I always knew Guinevere could be,
yet never experienced before.
“I serve you, my love.” My teeth grind as the beast tries to claw at the
surface of my being, begging to release. And that’s when I realize what she’s
doing—what she wants from me. “Do you want me to beg, Guinevere? To
grovel at your feet and explain how obsessed I am with you? How that
obsession drives me to madness? How sorry I am for leaving you in the dead
of night?”
 “Yes.” Her nod is firm. “You haven’t properly gotten on your knees for me
yet. You haven’t made amends.”
If speaking the words was easy, the physical act of going to my knees for
Guinevere is easier still. The cot groans as I find myself pushing forward,
falling to my knees, and then staring up at her with an apologetic slant to my
face.
I feel pitiful, pathetic, yet lewder than I’ve felt in weeks. Her beauty radiates
off her, stealing any doubts or fears I have about doing this—apologizing like
a prostrate parishioner. Like a sinner.
“Go on,” she orders, putting a hand on my cheek.
The touch burns me to my core. I close my eyes and lose myself to that
tender touch. When I open them, they’re burning. I stare up at her. “You could
drench me in your flames and I’d thank you for it, fireheart.”
Her fingers trail up the bridge of my nose, up my forehead, into my hair.
She tangles her fingers around my curls. “You told Arthur you wouldn’t let
anyone use you. Even him. Yet, you would allow me to?”
“Yes. As your blade, as your protector, as your plaything. Whatever you
wish. I only wish to serve you, Ever Queen. To worship you.”
“That’s a good boy.” Her voice has dropped an octave. “Show me. Be my
champion again, as you were in Chariot.”
My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth will crack. Can she hear the
hammering of my heart? This is so unlike the energy we’ve shared in the past
—something new, fervent, urgent. I want to bask in this moment forever. Melt
into her embrace and show her the utmost pleasure, until her senses are
aligned and transcendent.
When I begin to fall forward into her belly, she backs up a step. I follow,
shuffling on my knees. Groveling in words, and now in practice. Chasing her
like a lost dog.
Truth is, I am lost without her. She’s the only one who can keep my
monster at bay. The only one who can bring out the monster when he’s
needed.
Guinevere is right—I don’t serve Arthur, I don’t serve the Knights of the
Round Table, I don’t even serve myself.
She is my everything, and I need her to survive.
I lunge forward and my hands land on the swell of her hips. Her palms fall
on my knuckles, pinning them.
 “Everyone will hear us,” I eke out over a dry throat, licking my lips. My
cock pushes against the tight confines of my pants. “You know we can’t be
quiet once we get going.”
“Good. Let them.” Mirth dances in her eyes. “Maybe it’ll spark some
camaraderie; make them see what they’re missing with these petty squabbles.
Make them see their prize has been here all along, batting her fucking
eyelashes like a good girl. They’ve just been too blind to see.”
It’s the way she says it with such finality and frustration that has me
imploring her to give me everything she has. “Let me have you, fireheart.
Please. I’m on my knees, begging you.”
Gently, she uses her hands to hook my fingers into the waistband of her
pants. She begins to pull them down. I can’t take my eyes off her center—the
prize I’m licking my dry lips to see. I’m breathless, throat constricted and tight.
When she shimmies her pants down to her knees, her glistening pussy
stares me in the face, like the most sacred flower in all of Logres. Strands of
her dripping nectar stretch to the fabric of her clothes, glistening in the murky
moonlight slanting through the tent.
My jaw drops open at the wonder and splendor of Guinevere’s pussy—
And she uses that opportunity to grip the back of my head and plant my
face between her legs.
Her hand digs into my hair, grasping, shoving.
I taste her sweetness immediately. The wet sensation invades my senses and
makes my mind numb.
My tongue works desperately, eager to please and give Guinevere
everything she deserves. I lave her throbbing clit, lick her folds, and then prod
her slit. My nose nestles against her clit as I work in circles, feasting on her.
Guin’s warm thighs frame my face, trembling as I lap up her juices like a
dog in heat. She keeps me planted there, stuffing her pussy in my mouth, over
my nose, my chin—riding my face as swells of moans rip from her throat.
My hands cup her luscious, pale ass cheeks, squeezing, embedding the soft
flesh in my grip. I roam her hips and legs as she rides me.
“Ah, my champion,” she groans. “My good boy.”
Her words bring memories—flashbacks of similar words from a twisted
spirit. “Such a good boy, my sweet prince.”
I tongue Guinevere harder to keep the thoughts at bay, obsessed with
everything she offers me.
 I’ll never let us become what I was with Morgan le Fay.
There, I was a pet. A prisoner. With Guinevere, even at her beck and call, I
feel invincible. Like the future is in my palm, ready to be taken. I might be at
her mercy, but I’m not helpless or hopeless.
With that thought in the back of my mind, my right hand curves between
her crack and I spear her asshole with a finger. She cries out a strangled moan.
Both her hands are on my head, and she’s pushing forward, harder—and I’m
wrenching back, back—
Until I flop, legs bending at the knees, and my skull presses into the hard
cot behind me.
She sits on my face with her weight, bearing down on me, growling,
ramming her cunt down on my face until I can hardly breathe and wish
nothing more than to drown in her bliss. Her wetness fills my mouth. The
liquids pool on my tongue like a delectable treat.
Then she’s suddenly gone. I’m left panting, the moonlight jagging into the
tent overhead. A pang of loss hits me when Guinevere’s pussy is no longer
planted on my face. Her juices lather every inch of me.
She spins, and I use the momentary respite to crawl the rest of my body
onto the cot. My feet hang over the edge. I’m on my back, staring up at the
most beautiful vision: her dripping cunt and beautiful rosebud mere inches
from me.
I blink when I feel her hands tugging at my pants, pulling them down
eagerly. She frees my cock with a gasp as it pulls back and rockets against her
cheek, slapping with a satisfying thwack. “My, my, Sir Lancelot. Someone is
eager to fuck my face.”
When she hums her approval and runs her hands down my length, I clench
tight, almost blowing my load.
Then the warmth of her mouth settles on the wet ridge of my cock and
she purrs as she goes down on me. Her ass and pussy land on my face, and we
pleasure each other on opposite ends of one another.
She’s still in complete control, riding my face while she sucks my cock on
the other side. We’re two off-shaped puzzle pieces somehow made to fit one
another. Perfectly.
I reach up blindly and palm her swaying tits, dipping my hands into her
tunic to tease her hard nipples. My hands go down further, along her
shoulders, finding her face.
 My hips buck and I thrust into her mouth, making her gag. She returns the
favor by settling harder on my face, wetness spilling into my mouth.
I grab her head by the back and force her down my shaft, throat-fucking
the poor girl who has taken everything from me and destroyed me. The cot
squeals from the force of our fervent, sweaty desire. The small space of my
tent is stuffy and thick with our sex.
Then a brush of air wafts into the room—the flap opening and closing.
A low, rich voice fills the enclosed space.
“Glad to see you two didn’t stay estranged for long.”
Guinevere growls in a raspy tone once my cock leaves her mouth, my hard
length framing her face. “You better not be here to start shit, Arthur. It’s time
for you two to get on the same page. So shut the fuck up, get over here, and
fuck me until my body gives out.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 5
Guinevere

Arthur’s sly smirk drops after I order him around. A severe, smoldering look
takes over, like he’s wondering how he’s going to punish me this time.
It’s one thing for me to coax Lancelot like he’s my pet—the man was
desperate to make amends, speak his truth, and obsess over me.
But this is King Arthur. I’m his little girl, and I’ve never imagined pushing
him around. He has nothing to apologize for. If anything, I should be
groveling to him, for making him so fearful over my disappearance.
His entrance signals a new power shift. I’m not so haughty and in-charge
when he takes a step into the small room, while ripping his clothes off.
My eyes take in his imposing, chiseled body. His huge cock is already in his
fist, jutting from his waist. He strokes it, and my eyes glue to the massive slab
of meat, precum beading at the tip as he watches me ride Lancelot’s face.
To his credit, Lancelot doesn’t stop his ministrations. Face hidden beneath
the roundness of my full ass, he rims my asshole and eats my pussy like it’s the
finest meal in town. My body twitches and trembles when he hits a particularly
sweet spot.
“Who is this, and what have you done with Guinevere?” Arthur asks while
he strokes himself.
I trail my fingers down the underside of Lancelot’s long cock, grab his
girth, and stroke him next to my face where Arthur can see. With a sly smile of
my own, I say, “I’m the same spitfire I’ve been all along, my king. Just a little
needier, I suppose.”
He grunts. “That much seems obvious.” His heavy balls sway while he jerks
off in front of me. “I think I can get used to this new girl.”
“There’s nothing new about me. I’m still your Ever Queen.”
He bares his teeth in a vicious smile. “We’ll see about that, little girl.” Then
he grabs my head with both hands and pulls me to him. I squeak as he moves
me like I’m a feather.
Lancelot growls, embeds his fingers in the flesh of my thighs, and buries
his face deeper inside me, keeping me stationary. They’re pulling me in two
directions. Competitive, aggressive, both wanting to claim me, neither willing
to give in.
King Arthur pinches my cheeks with one hand and puckers my lips. He
slides one of his fingers in my mouth, then yanks down, forcing my lips open.
He rams his massive cock into my open maw and my eyes bulge, tearing up
instantly from his size.
At the same time, Lancelot bucks his hips, eager for attention, smacking me
in the side of the face with his cock. There’s no way I’m fitting both of them
inside my greedy little face-hole—not with Arthur stretching my jaw and filling
the entire space.
While the king fucks my face, grunting, I wrap my hand around Lance and
stroke him, inches from Arthur.
I pull my face off Arthur’s cock with a wet pop and put their shafts
together, underside to underside, and then use both hands to fist-fuck them,
watching as the precum builds and spills between their two oversized
cockheads.
The men groan. Arthur looks down at what I’m doing. A flash of anger
turns into understanding, then pleasure. His flaring nose tells me he likes it.
He may not like Lance much right now, or want to talk to him, but he
doesn’t seem to mind when his dick is pressed against Lancelot’s as long as I’m
the one doing the dirty work.
“Fuck, fireheart,” Lancelot says, voice muffled under my ass.
I’m shocked he can breathe down there. I haven’t let him up for a while,
and his words only make me wiggle my ass harder on his face.
I glance up at Arthur with a bratty smirk, my eyes glistening from his shiny
cockhead near my lips. “I thought you said you were going to break my pussy
in half for what I did, once you got hold of me?”
He snarls. “Didn’t I do that already in the woods, with Merlin’s vines?”
I downplay it, as if it wasn’t the raunchiest, most otherworldly sexual
experience of my life. “It was okay.”
The king’s veins pop. The anger burgeons in full force, swelling every
muscle and hard plane of his body. “Just okay? You passed out after we filled
your body with our cum and painted you like a masterpiece.”
 I shrug, then bend my neck to lick up the salty precum cascading down his
and Lancelot’s crowns.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to do better . . .” When he trails off with an
ominous growl, I look up—
And he lifts me right off Lancelot, taking control of my body and the
situation. My legs kick. I squeal as he spins me around so I’m facing the
reclined knight on the cot.
Lancelot’s face gleams with my juices. His half-lidded eyes widen when he
sees Arthur manhandling me like a toy.
Arthur forces my thighs apart. “Come here and sit on my fucking cock like
you’re meant to, little girl.” He bares me to Lancelot, his hands going under my
thighs.
I gasp when he tries to find my pussy from behind, and misses the first two
thrusts. His cock glides over my engorged folds and runs across my clit,
shooting off lightning behind my eyes.
On the third go, he feeds himself inside me.
My legs jerk. I look down between my bouncing breasts, watching as he
stretches and stuffs me full, gawking.
“You like watching me break your pretty pussy in two, my little whore
queen?”
I nod wordlessly. My neck tightens as he pummels inside me, bulging my
flat belly with every upward thrust. He’s so fucking big, it’s like I can feel him
punching up into my stomach, even though I know that’s impossible.
It’s one of those illusions where the house is bigger on the inside than it
looked outside—Arthur is enormous, yet he somehow feels even bigger when
he’s hilted inside and ravaging my tunnel.
Lancelot rolls over and jumps up from his hands and knees. His dick wags
as he reaches the end of the bed in a hurry, springing at me and slamming his
lips over mine.
Our tongues swirl, the submissive side of him losing ground to the
dominant demon I’ve always known.
It’s heart-stopping and soul-filling.
When he palms my tits and tweaks my nipples, my body convulses. He rips
his mouth away.
“F-Fuck!” I yell, drooling out the side of my mouth.
 He takes one of my breasts in his mouth, using the other hand to spank my
clit while Arthur fucks me.
I was already weightless. Now I’m losing consciousness. It’s too much
agonizing pleasure for one moment. I’m worried I might squirt all over
Lancelot in a full-on explosion if he keeps viciously rubbing my clit while my
pussy is stuffed to the brim with Arthur.
Their competitive natures have won. It’s a battle I’ll lose every time. A
battle I love losing, not just because of the intensity and blissfulness of it, but
also because it shows they are willing to work together.
As long as I’m involved.
Arthur growls in my ear. Goosebumps rise up the nape of my neck. He
nibbles my ear and I unravel, coming hard, my toes clenching and unclenching.
Lancelot fists his cock and slides it against Arthur’s.
I moan, fighting past the wave of maddening pleasure. My pussy tightens
through the orgasm, and then loosens, my whole body boneless.
I look down, see what Lancelot is trying to do, and my eyes turn into
saucers. “N-No fucking way! You’re both too big already—there’s no way
you’ll fit together!”
Lancelot’s smile is dark and devious, a flash of the demon nesting inside
him. “You said you wanted us on the same page, fireheart.”
“I-I-I didn’t mean—”
My voice ends on a choke. Lancelot’s dick rides up Arthur’s length and
stretches me even further. My hole is so stuffed I’m not sure it’ll ever be the
same. Even though Lancelot can only fit the first couple inches of him inside
me with Arthur there, the sensation is too much. My whole body feels full,
brimming, crowded.
I screw my eyes shut, fighting off the abrupt pain, and then see double
when I open my eyes and stare at Lancelot. Two sets of gold-tinged orbs,
staring back at me, eating up my expression.
I come again, harder this time, my whole body bouncing as they penetrate
my pussy together and bring a whole new meaning to the term double-stuffed.
I’m gonna pass out! I yell in my head. This always happens when they fuck me so
hard, but this is next level!
My hands go to Lancelot’s shoulders. At the same time, Arthur grabs me by
the waist and my legs drop. I spread them as far as they’ll go, feel blindly with
the soles of my feet, reaching back, back—
 Until my feet find purchase on Arthur’s bulky thighs, like a couple of
diagonal platforms.
I lift and drop myself on the tops of his thighs. On the third bounce,
Lancelot’s cock shoots out of my pussy. He growls, grips himself for guidance,
and pushes closer. This time, his cock spears behind Arthur’s, to form a lewd
X with their shafts, and he squeezes himself into my asshole.
Once the wet ring of muscle parts and lets him in, my head rolls forward.
I bite down on Lancelot’s shoulder. He laughs at me as I leave a jagged
crescent moon on his broken skin.
What began as competition—give-and-take I wasn’t sure Lancelot and
Arthur were capable of doing—has melded into camaraderie. Just like I’d
hoped.
They groan and growl as they fuck me silly in both holes. Who knew they’d
realize this was all they needed to break open their frustrations and get them on the same
page? Allies, again.
As a third raucous orgasm rides to the deepest parts of my core, I think
another unhinged thought: Divided, they are weaker, but together, they are strong and
dominant. I don’t want them to ever forget it.
But I forget it, seconds later, as the tight pressure building from my stuffed
holes becomes too much to bear. I all but jump up from Arthur’s legs while my
body trembles and convulses uncontrollably. My voice lilts in a staccato
rhythm as fluids spray from my pussy and the climax rips through me.
I spill all over their legs and the ground. Then I’m squirming in Arthur’s
grip like a slippery, sweaty eel, and manage to get out of his grasp. I land hard
on my hands and knees, my weary bones crunching.
I crawl away, still trembling, still twitching from the shocks of pleasure. I
find myself outside in the cool night air, naked and clammy and—
“Where do you think you’re going, little banshee?” Lancelot growls.
He grabs my legs, pulls, and I go sliding back toward the tent. My nails claw
into the dirt, dragging streaks with me like I’m in a horror movie and about to
get pulled down into Pennywise’s gutter.
The momentary fear becomes life-giving euphoria when Lancelot’s cock
slams back into my ass.
“Ahhh!” I shriek.
Across the camp, tent flaps fly open.
 Kay bounds outside, yelling, “Lamb?!” and then sees me bent on my hands
and knees, Lancelot pounding into me. “Oh.” When he sees Arthur surge out
of the tent, also naked, and move to stand in front of me, Kay murmurs,
“Looks like you took my advice.”
Gawain pops his head out of his tent to see the goings-on, and Percival
follows shortly after. The three knights watch while Lancelot fucks my ass into
submission and Arthur lodges his cock into my throat. They watch with guilty
interest as their king and kinsman spitroast me and use my body like I belong
to them.
Arthur and Lance throb, roaring wordlessly. Even though I’m a dirty
ragdoll on all fours for them, I still feel in control. I take satisfaction knowing
only I can do this for them. Only I can make them unravel like absolute
monsters. It’s my superpower, and they know it.
I’ve been fucked in enough crazy ways to make the Kama Sutra proud.
Now I feel them finishing me off. Cocks expanding, veins protruding, my guts
beaten to a pulp.
Lancelot shoots his load deep, deep into my ass. Arthur fills my mouth, and
his sweet, salty spunk pumps down my throat and into my belly. They hold
themselves inside—Arthur’s hands on my head, Lancelot’s hands on my ass—
pulsating and twitching as they spill themselves in me.
The battle for dominance is over. They’ve won. I woke their competitive
spirits, which turned into a new chapter of brotherhood. I deserve a round of
applause from our onlookers for taking it so roughly, but if I ever get it, I
don’t hear it.
When my eyes open, I’m on my belly on the dirt, panting. Somewhere
along the way, sure enough, I passed out. I imagine I was only out for a few
seconds, because Lancelot and Arthur are standing over me like sentinels.
Their shadows cut over my body from the rays of silvery moonlight behind
them.
Arthur smiles at me. “There’s our little queen.”
“Right as rain,” Lancelot adds.
“Did it work that time?” Arthur asks roguishly, alluding to “breaking me in
half,” and he already knows the answer.
I lift my cheek, which is crusted and smeared with dirt, and give him a
dumb nod. “I-It worked, my king.” I can still feel Lancelot dripping out of me;
can still taste Arthur on the back of my tongue. “Glad . . . glad to see you two
working together again. Back where you s-should be. Glad you . . . learned
your . . . lesson.”
Arthur chuckles. “What lesson would that be, little one?”
I think it again: Without me, divided, they are weak. With me, united, they are
dominant and strong. Something I hope they remember when the going gets tough again, like
I’m sure it will.
I open my mouth to let those words fly—
And collapse face-first onto the dirt before I can get them out.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 6
Mordred

I stare at the old, weathered face of my uncle’s physician, Baucillas. The man
who tutored me in the written word when I was a young man in King Uther’s
court.
He looks so fragile these days. His eyes are rheumy under puffy lids. Black
circles drag his leathery face down, as if his own skin is revolting and trying to
flee. Some of those circles are from age, some are from bruises.
I don’t like torturing old men. It’s not what I had in mind when I became
King of Camelot. And I certainly don’t enjoy watching my elderly tutor suffer.
But a king must do terrible things for the greater good. I know Baucillas is
keeping things from me—pertinent information that will go far in changing
the landscape of Camelot and the mood of its citizens.
No matter how much I press the old bastard, he won’t budge. The torturers
went too hard on him—a dead man can’t tell secrets—so I took over a week
ago. I was appalled at the state of him, with his broken bones and beleaguered
attitude.
He can’t walk anymore, as far as I can tell. I’m not sure if that’s from a
break in his legs, or simply from old age catching up to him.
Recently, I’ve been coming to the dungeons nearly every day. Asking the
same questions, going through the same motions, getting the same
nonresponsive answers.
It’s almost like the old fucker wants me to kill him.
Now, I sit across from him at a rickety table. His hands are shackled to the
tabletop. They look skeletal, the skin dipping and stretching against his
knuckles and bones. At least one of those fingers is broken, misshapen—
again, possibly from the rigors of time.
I’ve asked him the same questions I do every day: “What do you know
about this grassroots organization rising up in Camelot City? Who is running
this operation? What is their endgame?”
This time, he simply stares at me. Like he doesn’t hear me. He blinks, bows
his head, and returns his gaze to my face. Not quite to my eyes—searching the
stress lines and divots near my mouth, in my cheeks, around my chin.
I wave a hand in front of his face. “Aye? Did you hear me, old man?
Where’s your snappy retort? ‘I don’t know, King Mordred. I wouldn’t tell you
if I did.’” My voice mocks, higher pitched.
It’s easy to read my frustration. He isn’t deaf or stupid.
Perhaps I’m coming here too often. Giving him too much of my time.
But I have to wring answers out of him. And, deep inside, I know there’s
something else bringing me here. Something I refuse to say out loud.
With Gaheris and Gareth gone—my brothers—I have no one to confide in. Aunt
Morgan is away from Camelot half the time, off scheming in other parts of the continent.
I’m . . . all alone here.
I’m a king, with people who would give their lives to protect me . . . out of
a sense of duty. Women lie in wait, eager to court the country’s most eligible
bachelor. I could have any woman or man I want in my bedchamber every
night. One of the legendary Relics Three sits on my head.
And yet, I don’t care about any of that. Why do I still feel all alone? Why am I
punished like this, after all the things I’ve taken and won?
For a moment, I wonder if it was a terrible mistake to fracture the Round
Table. If I wouldn’t feel better with some likeminded kinsmen alongside me.
I toss that dangerous thought away and lean back in my seat, sighing.
“Great, he’s gone mute. Did the torturer take out your tongue in between the
days I’ve been here, old louse?”
He purses his lips, a throng of lines stretching his skin. “I’m tired of
talking, Mordred.”
I blink. Lean forward, my elbows on the table. “That’s too bad. I’m not
tired of listening. It would be so easy for you, Baucillas.” I gesture my hands
around this dark, dank cell. “So easy for you to free yourself of these confines.
If you only tell me what I want to know.”
He pauses. Thinks about that.
I lean in even further, my heart suddenly beating faster. Have I gotten to him,
finally? Broken the old stubborn surgeon enough to tell me what I want to know? As I said,
he’s not stupid—he knows there’s no way out of this. Even after he spills his secrets, I can’t
let him leave here alive to warn his enclave about what he tells me.
 I wonder if he’s finally given up hope. If he’s tired of this routine and
wants to simply be done with it and with his mortal coil.
Then, slowly, he says, “What more do you want, boy?”
My eyes narrow. I stay silent, his mouth moving to say more.
“You’ve broken the spirit of the Knights of the Round Table.” He rolls his
head to the side. “You’ve taken Camelot.” His head rolls to the other side.
“You’ve gotten the nod from the other kings of Logres. You have won.”
My teeth grind. “You don’t know anything about winning, Baucillas.”
“Then when is it over?”
“Not until I say it is.”
He prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. The man’s voice is
throaty and phlegmatic these days, due to the horrific living conditions down
here.
“Not until you say it is”—he raises a brow—“or someone else?”
Anger runs through me like a ragged beast. I close my eyes to calm the
abrupt onslaught of violent emotions. Slowly, I open them. “I know what
you’re implying, surgeon. You can stop that line of thought, before you get
yourself in more trouble. It’s simply not true.”
He nods. As if he could understand any of the pressures I’m under. “Then
what are you fighting for?”
For the Holy Grail. For Camelot. For Guinevere. “To prove everyone wrong,” I
say, landing on an acceptable answer.
It seems I’ve surprised the ancient curmudgeon, because his head lurches a
fraction. He blinks twice. “Wrong? About what?”
“That I can’t lead this realm into prosperity.”
Baucillas stops, starts to rattle with laughter, and then breaks into a
coughing fit.
It does nothing to assuage the fury boiling inside me.
He spits on the ground next to him. His dewy old eyes pierce into mine.
“You think stepping into Arthur’s boots changes a thing? The people still
clamor outside these walls, desperate for change. You see a new regime? They
see a new face for the same old regime. A Pendragon. You are Anna’s son.”
He shakes his head, clearly disappointed in me.
How heartbreaking, I think wryly. More concerned with a young pup like me than his
own shitty circumstances.
 “The Rot still persists, pervasive as ever,” he says, getting to the crux of his
spiel. “You’ve been here weeks, and what have you done to change anything?”
Too many questions. I fucking hate it. Plus, he might be over the hill, but
he’s not senile. His mind is still strong. I’m not sure if I could outwit this
bastard—and why even try? So, I answer his loaded question with one of my
own.
“What would you know about change, eh? About leadership, and the
sacrifices one must make in its name?”
Strangely, he smiles. It’s almost heartfelt, if it wasn’t so sickly looking. “You
know, son, before I was old and decrepit and could hardly walk without
assistance . . . I was once young. I served King Uther, you know.”
Guilt swims up my spine. The Old King. The man I murdered over time,
with the poisonous apple seeds Baucillas taught me about. My grandfather,
through my mother Queen Anna.
“Nonsense,” I say, waving him off, trying to fend off the sordid thoughts
invading my mind. “You served Uther. Fine. Not in any important capacity
besides being his chambermaid and wet nurse.” I give him a slight smile.
He doesn’t take the bait. “No, I served as a soldier.”
My brow lifts. I’m surprised, because I’ve never imagined Baucillas anything
other than an old, frail man.
“I carried the sword and shield,” he says. “Waved the rampant dragon
banner. Fought the battles he directed me to fight. You know what I learned
through all that time of service?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“It’s greater to be of service to the living than the dead, boy.”
I blink and work that over in my mind—wondering what, exactly, he means.
He expands. “Death begets more death. You should know that. It never
changes a thing. It’s a vicious cycle, tearing you up more and more as the years
pass.” He shrugs, smiles sadly, looks away. “Until, one day, you decide you can’t
handle being the harbinger of death any longer. So, you decide to dedicate
your life to being a harbinger of life. As much as you can, anyway.”
“Fascinating story, physician.” I sit back. At least he’s interesting, though
I’m no closer to my goals wasting time listening to him. “However, our lives
are nothing alike. You weren’t born into this. You weren’t destined to rule.”
His mouth opens and closes. I try to predict his next words—“No, and
neither were you.” The typical fare, meant to rile me up.
 He doesn’t go there. He simply shakes his head, more sadness on his
wrinkled face. “No, I wasn’t. I don’t envy you that task. I was destined to do
the most with my life, though. The most good I can with the years I’m given.”
I scoff and pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m getting tired. Baucillas trying
to paint himself as a saint isn’t winning me over. It’s hypocritical after the story
he just told me of soldiering for Uther.
Hypocritical, like all the fucking bastards who have stood in Camelot’s halls.
Pissing away their good fortunes and pissing on their subjects. Taking for
granted their blessings while trying to “make change” and “better” the world
in their twisted eyes.
“I’m glad for you, Baucillas.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “Please, tell me
there’s a point to your rambling.”
His next words are low—the touch of a ghost. “Let Arthur go, Mordred.”
In his haunting whisper, he urges me with every fiber of his being. The chains
shackling his wrists rattle as he tries to move them.
I want to scoff at that, too. “What, and let him gain momentum and usurp
me, as I’ve done to him? You just talked about vicious cycles, Baucillas.”
“Unburden your mind from your uncle. You will free yourself. He is not
your enemy, Mordred. The enemy is in your own heart.”
I flare my nostrils. “More foolishness from a man who fancies himself a
preacher, yet understands nothing. Without me, the Rot will take over.”
“It already has. I don’t see it going anywhere with you here. You can’t
magically make it go away simply by becoming King of Camelot.”
“Oh, but I can,” I snap. “With the Holy Grail. Don’t you see? I can be the
savior the people need.”
He seems unimpressed, pausing a beat to take in my proclamation. “You’re
saying you, specifically, can command the Grail to do your bidding? That you
can use its legendary properties to undo the curse on this land?”
“I—” My voice stops. I clear my throat, avert my gaze. Some of the bluster
is shot from my sails. “Well, not me specifically, but—”
“Her,” he cuts off. “Right.” He nods like he has it all figured out. “The one
who holds no sway over you.”
Now he’s being the sarcastic one. He lured me into this silly trap. I fell for it
because I’m so eager to convince him he’s wrong. Just like the rest. Just like I
told him to begin with.
I will prove Baucillas wrong, even if he’s beyond the grave when I do it.
 I stand from my seat, the anger too much to keep reined in. I’m tempted to
draw my sword and slam the pommel on his flat, bony hand.
The sword is already halfway out its sheath when I pause, reconsidering.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
The bastard simply looks at me with pity, of all things.
Pity, when he’s the one in chains, dying in this cold cell.
It’s no use.
I slam my sword back into its scabbard, spin around, and head for the gate.
Once I’m outside, I march down the hall and gain the stairs—
Not before his ragged voice follows me, jumping on my shoulders to stay
with me.
“The Rot isn’t going anywhere, my king. It’s stuck to you like the smell on
shit, and so are your sins against humanity. You’ve had a month as king and
you’ve squandered it on a wild hunt. The citizens want results, they want
change. You’ve provided them nothing!”
He keeps squawking after I’m through the door, into the castle. Then I
can’t hear him anymore.
Thank Avalon for that.
I grab the nearest guard’s shoulder. “Double the guard,” I command.
His eyebrows furrow. “Sire?”
“He’s getting bolder. They’re planning something.”
I storm away before the guard finishes saluting.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 7
Guinevere

I’m sore next morning. I have a feeling I’m going to be sore for the next few
days. Lancelot and Arthur really did a number on me.
Despite that, I can’t stop smiling to myself and blushing. Playing the wild
night over in my mind, on repeat. Remembering how those two came together
for a common good—for me.
I have to hope their shaky alliance holds. I think it will, honestly, as long as
they have me. I’m the one holding this whole thing together, and it boosts me
with confidence as I step out from my tent into the gray, misty morning.
The guys are already at the morning campfire, which makes for an awkward
walk of shame to go sit by them. When they see me coming, Percy and
Gawain bow their heads to hide their faces in the wooden bowls Percival
crafted us a few days ago. They make it real obvious their food is much more
interesting than meeting my gaze.
I nestle in between Arthur and Lancelot. Their broad bodies make me feel
protected. My heart begins to race, wiping away any lingering grogginess of
sleep.
Arthur picks up the wooden spit from the fire, which has a few remnants
of smoky, charred hare stuck on it.
As he points the spit in my direction, I sarcastically say, “Mmm, rabbit
kabob. What a delicacy.”
Gawain snorts. My joke doesn’t land with anyone else. Beggars can’t be
choosers and all that.
I reach for the top piece of meat, but then Lancelot’s hand folds over mine.
“Careful,” he says, grabbing the food and slapping it on a bowl. “It’s hot.”
I glance over at Arthur, who’s shaking his head, and then I share a smirk
with Lancelot. Look at these two, coddling me after last night. Arthur hands me food,
Lancelot goes, “I can do one better,” and picks the steaming sliver of meat off the stick for
me.
“Thanks,” I say, chuckling as I blow and then bite into the gristly heap. “I’m
not sure my precious, soft, little womanly hands could have handled all that
heat.”
At that, Percival joins Gawain’s chuckling. I think I hear one of them
mutter, “They handled all that heat last night,” but I could be hearing things.
We start eating. Everyone falls quiet. Too quiet. It’s the quietest meal we’ve
had in ages. The silence sits there until it’s uncomfortable. The chewing
sounds are starting to annoy my ADHD brain. It’s such a pet peeve. I wish I
had music or something to drown it out—a nice tune by Percy, perhaps?
When I glance over the rim of my bowl, I see Kay is the only one who
doesn’t have his head bowed. He’s across the fire from me, inspecting
everyone’s faces with a scrutinizing furrow of his brow.
He clicks his tongue. “Quite the busy evening you all had, eh?”
Five faces lift from their food bowls. Embarrassment colors our cheeks.
We’re at a loss of what to say. Arthur tries. He stammers, then gives up and
returns to his bowl.
Gawain and Percival are immediately vocal, voices rising above each other
as they try to explain themselves.
Kay rumbles with a belly-laugh, pleased he’s ruffled everyone’s feathers.
Gawain throws his arms up. “We only did what we did because we thought
the lark was occupied.”
I’ve never heard Gawain try to justify his actions for . . . anything. But here
we are. The darkest knight with the biggest excuses.
“Oh, please,” Lancelot snorts, “you two were fucking before Guin even
came to my tent. We all saw it. Or at least I did.”
I laugh and raise my hand. “Can confirm.”
Percival points accusingly at Kay. Around a mouthful, he says, “She came
from your tent first! Have something to tell us, Sir Kay?”
Kay isn’t embarrassed in the least. “I told the little lamb her services would
be more appreciated somewhere else.”
“Oh, how big of you,” Gawain jeers.
“Are you saying you don’t appreciate our Ever Queen, Kay?” Percival
shoots back.
Kay waves him off.
 “Wait, my services?!” I cry out. “I’m not Lady Freya over here, you know!”
Everyone pauses for a beat, eyes jolting to me with their mouths making
little circles—
Then we all bust out laughing. Even Arthur.
Tears come to my eyes when I look around at the guys’ joyous faces. It’s
not even that funny, but it’s contagious.
It’s these peaceful, happy moments that remind me how much I love each of these
bastards. Part of why it means so much to me is I know it isn’t going to last. It
never does in Logres.
This is the calm before the storm.
Just what the hell does the shitstorm have in store for us this time?

† † †

“You’re sure about this, Kay?” Arthur asks from his bench.
We have two carts and eight horses now, which we’ve compiled from our
adventures through the various towns. We’re in the middle of nowhere, near
some trees and hills in Estrangore, about to head south to hit Sorestan and
Forest Sauvage. We’ll find Castle Sauvage inside the forest, where King Ector
lives.
The king continues. “Because once we get these carts moving, I don’t want
to turn them around.”
“Avalon fucking redeem me, brother,” Kay yells from his bench, “you act
like I wasn’t forced into agreeing to this to stop all you bickering assholes.”
“I know,” Arthur mumbles. “That’s why I’m giving you a final chance to—”
“Of course I’m sure, dammit!” Kay finishes with a snap of the reins. A
click of his tongue gets the horses moving.
Kay sits in a cart with Percival and Gawain. It’s comical watching the three
of them try to sit together on the bench, packed like sardines. Then again, my
accommodations aren’t much better. I’m squished between the large bodies of
Lancelot and Arthur in our cart. It isn’t always this way—the knights play
musical chairs with who gets to sit next to me, and it changes daily.
After last night, I’m the trophy Lancelot and Arthur get to hoist between
them. So, here I am, bringing my shoulders in tight so I can fit between the
big, broad-shouldered men. At least if we get into a cart crash, I’m so fucking
wedged in here I probably won’t go flying.
 We make slow progress through the first half of the day. It’s slow because
we don’t want to tire the horses. Plus, the knights like to keep their eyes on a
swivel so we don’t run into anything or anyone sketchy.
We take an old, beaten road. More of a dirt path than an actual road. It’s
another result of wanting to stay out of sight from prying eyes, which only
slows our progress more.
Within a few hours, my ass hurts something fierce. It’s not just from Lance
pummeling it into oblivion last night—it’s the damn hardwood bench biting
into my tailbone, and every rickety bump in the crappy potholed road.
I’m already desperate for a break, but I won’t be the first one to squeal.
That honor typically belongs to Kay, surprisingly, who, despite being a big
bad giant of a man, has a peculiarly mushy, delicate rear end. Everyone gives
him shit for it.
“You’d think with all that pudginess cushioning your rear, you’d be able to
sit longer,” Gawain jabbed one day.
It’s true. Kay has a big, shapely ass. It’s pretty awesome.
“Says the man who gets a routine ass-workout from your sunflower over
there!” Kay shouted back.
“No! He gets an ass workout from me!”
Percy jumped in: “You’re not fooling anyone, Gawain. Everyone knows
we’ve done a bit of role-reversing lately.”
“Not true!”
Stuff like that always gets everyone laughing. Me most of all. I hide my
open mouth behind my palm and cackle like a banshee, throwing my head
back.
Today, Kay’s excuse comes a few hours into our day. “Argh! My bum leg is
killing me. We have to stop, Arthur.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and sighs, slowly clicking his tongue to bring the
horses off the road.
Sure, Kay. It’s your leg. Not your big prissy butt.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kay growls at Arthur as we wind off the road
into a shaded patch of trees. “I’m not the same spritely waif I used to be.”
Arthur frowns. “Neither am I, Kay. But you don’t see me bitching about
have a few creaky bones.”
“I have a year on you, for sure!” He doesn’t sound too sure. “Which means
more creaky bones.”
 “I thought we were doing this trek to get away from the griping and
whining, Kay,” Gawain says.
“Shut up, little knight.”
Once we’ve dislodged ourselves from the carts, Lancelot snorts. “When
were you two ever spritely waifs, anyway?”
I chuckle.
Kay smacks Arthur hard on the back—hard enough to make him cough—
and smiles. “You should have seen Arthur as a younger man. Pretty as they
make ‘em.”
“That would’ve been a sight to see,” Percival murmurs, his voice rising in
adoration of his king.
I go on my tiptoes and wrap my arm around Percy’s shoulder, beaming at
him. He gives me a wink.
We spend the next few minutes stretching, groaning, giving each other
more shit.
Then I walk up to Lancelot and Arthur, who are both peering out from the
trees to the flat plains ahead. The sun has burned off the mist and scorches
overhead.
“Are we making good progress?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“No.” Arthur isn’t too pleased. He has his arms crossed over his chest.
“It’s all the stopping and starting, huh?”
“Yes. Kay’s right about one thing: We’re not the same young men we used
to be.”
I bump him with my shoulder. “Oh, come on,” I say with a grin, “you can’t
be more than thirty-five years—”
He turns his head, narrows his eyes into my soul, and it shuts me up.
“Oh. Okay.” How far off am I? Or do knights and kings not like discussing their
age? I bite my lip and stare off into the flatland, which shimmers from the
heat. Squinting, I shield my eyes with my hand. “Looks like nothing is out
there.”
“That’s where you’d be wrong, fireheart,” Lancelot says.
I hear the shlick of metal sliding from his scabbard.
Alarm blooms, drawing goosebumps along my arms. That’s never a good
sound.
Then, in the distance, like two ants emerging from a mirage in the desert, I
see it: Riders.
 Arthur draws Excalibur and pops his head over his shoulder. “Knights, to
arms.”
Kay, Percival, and Gawain aren’t stretching or teasing each other anymore.
They’re beside us within seconds, weapons out, the joy sucked out of their
faces.
I take a shaky breath. Fucking hell, man. Not this shit again.
As the horses gallop in our direction, I wait on bated breath, tapping my
feet. Shifting my weight nervously. Waiting to see if they notice us in the trees,
or if they continue past. I mean, we’re not exactly hiding in well-covered
foliage. The woods here are thin and reedy.
“They’re headed for us,” Percy says, confirming my fear.
“I know,” Arthur answers. His voice is very kingly now. Tactical, like he’s
debating what we should do.
Then Lancelot lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a
snort. “I’ll be damned.”
Everyone looks over at him, brows furrowed.
“Look who it is, fireheart.”
My eyes bulge. Who the heck do I know in Logres other than these guys?
For the moment, the horsemen continue to look like ants, but slowly, they
grow larger, closer. The hooves start making an earth-rumbling thud, which is
simultaneously satisfying and frightening.
Once I see a sprig of bright yellow hair sticking out from under a helmet, I
let out a gasp of surprise and recognition.
No. Not a sprig. Two sprigs.
Pigtails.
“Holy shit!” I yell. “It’s Tristan and Iseult!”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 8
Guinevere

“Who?” Arthur asks, facing me with a tilted brow.

I open my mouth to explain, then close it. How am I supposed to explain
Tristan and Iseult? Star-crossed lovers separated by slavers and a warlord
uncle? It’s something out of a movie.
Tristan, the wistful bard, spreading his songs of love across the realms in
hopes of locating his blonde-haired lover—a princess-turned-slave-turned-
murderer-fugitive.
Iseult, a strong woman of Hibernian stock, the daughter of a king,
desperate to reunite with her golden lion. The same princess who Tristan stole
from his uncle, King Mark of Kernow, and now gallivants across the
countryside with, shoving it in Mark’s face.
Last I saw Tristan, he’d betrayed me and Lancelot. Sold us to the highest
bidder in a desperate hope to get some intel about Iseult’s whereabouts. That
began the chain of events landing me in a castle dungeon, hanging from the
ceiling like a pet bird for Morgan le Fay. Which led to Lancelot killing his old
friend, Sir Galehaut, in single combat to free me.
Now, Tristan and Iseult have reunited. Watching them ride toward us, fierce
and battle-ready in studded leather, swords at their hips, makes me shiver with
anticipation, anxiety, and excitement.
I glance over at Lancelot. He’s watching my face. So is Arthur. I end up
shrugging and saying, “Acquaintances Lancelot and I met while on the road.”
“Acquaintances?” Arthur grunts. “Hm.” He looks past me to Gawain and
Percival. “How did they find us? I thought you two took care of our tracks.”
“We did,” Gawain snaps through gritted teeth. He’s never one to take
criticism lightly, especially when it concerns his job.
“They must have been tipped off,” Percy says.
 “By whom?” Arthur asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll have to
make haste out of here, now.”
“Let’s see what they have to say, first,” I butt in, putting a hand on Arthur’s
arm.
Arthur frowns at me. His lip twitches. It’s one thing to call me the Ever
Queen; he doesn’t like his leadership being questioned, even by me. This is the
first step in us reconciling a new dynamic among the Knights of the Round
Table. The dynamic where I help call the shots.
“I can vouch for the girl, Iseult,” I say.
The silence behind me is stuffy. Then Lancelot says, “I vouch for the man,
Tristan. He saved my life. In turn, he helped me save Guinevere’s.”
King Arthur blinks, forehead lining with creases. He opens his mouth to
ask more about Lancelot’s statement, no doubt, then glances over at the plains
as Tristan and Iseult near our trees.
My hand on Arthur’s arm tightens. His muscles flex.
“Please, my king,” I whisper close to him. “Let’s just hear them out.”
He’s struggling to allow it. He finally bares his teeth and spits out “Fine,”
before stabbing Excalibur into the scabbard at his hip. He stands in front of
our pack.
I join him. “I can do the talking.”
Tristan murmurs and clicks his tongue, slowing his horse to a stop. He calls
out, “Hail! By my deceptive eyes, is that Lady Guinevere and Sir Lancelot I
see?”
“Hello, Tristan.” To Iseult, I smile and give her a small wave. “Iseult. Lovely
to see you again. I hoped you two would be reunited next time we crossed
each other’s paths.”
“All thanks to you, Lady Guinevere.” Iseult bows her head. “Led us both in
the right direction.”
Arthur looks at me strangely, as if to say, again, “Who are you and what
have you done with Guinevere?” He looks torn—wondering what kind of
adventures Lancelot and I got into, while also wanting to take the lead on this,
if only to be protective over me.
Some adventures, like the ones Lancelot and I had, are meant to be kept
between us. Arthur wasn’t there, and there’s no use delving into the past. It’s
the one thing I can keep of Sir Lancelot’s that’s mine and mine alone, getting
to know the exiled knight who has become part of my heart.
 Tristan dismounts. He loops the reins of his horse around his wrist. “We’re
glad to see you’ve found your men as well, Guinevere. May we approach, King
Arthur?”
Arthur folds his arms over his chest. He’s the very picture of defiance.
“How did you find us, soldier?”
Tristan shoots him a small smile. “Soldier? I am but a wily minstrel
accidentally given a sword, sir.”
At that, I notice Percival’s eyebrows perk. What kind of musician doesn’t
love running into other musicians, especially in these circumstances?
“Nonsense,” Lancelot says. “I’ve seen what you can do with that sword.
And a bow. I’ve also seen what Iseult can do with a big fucking rock.”
The princess flares her nostrils. “Could have done it with a sword, too, had
you let me use one of yours.”
Everyone looks confused at our little inside conversation.
“Enough.” Arthur is evidently not happy to be excluded. “You deflect,
minstrel. How did you find us?”
“A little bit of tracking and a lot of luck, king.”
“Be more specific.”
Tristan begins to approach, then lifts his brow when he sees Arthur’s hand
going to the hilt of Excalibur. “May I?”
“Yes,” I answer for the king.
Arthur grumbles to himself.
Once he’s closer, under the dappled shade of a tree, Tristan wraps the
bridle of his horse around the trunk. He takes Iseult’s bit and does the same.
Then he reaches into a small bag at his waist, takes out an apple, and crunches
into it. Around the mouthful, he says, “In searching for Iseult, I daresay I’ve
become good at finding people. Asking around. Some people think you are a
ghost, King Arthur.”
“How so?”
“Haunting this land, trying to find a way back to your cursed throne. When
I can, I convince them otherwise, saying you were usurped unjustly and fight
on the side of righteousness.” Tristan salutes with his arm over his chest.
“Why?” Arthur asks. “I don’t know you. Why would you defend my
honor?”
“Because Lady Guinevere is your woman. I trust her. Sir Lancelot, too.”
“Where did you find these people you’ve . . . converted to my cause?”
 “Across the townships in Sorestan, Gorre, Estrangore, Sauvage—you name
it. People south think you went north to gather a great army. People north
think you went south. I triangulated the locations where people imagined you
might be, and through a little luck, found you here. Going into Sorestan, it
appears.”
“Sounds very convenient, minstrel.” Arthur’s voice is broody. He’s
understandably skeptical.
I say, “King Arthur, I think how they found us is less important than why
they found us. No?”
“True,” Arthur agrees. “So tell us. We were about to break camp to
continue on the road.”
Tristan tsks and thumbs over his shoulder. “Then you’ll not want to head
the way you were going. The Queen of Sorestan has set up toll roads and
highwaymen staged as knights to spy on all who enter her realm.”
“Morgan’s sorceress ally,” Arthur growls. His gray eyes flash with anger.
“We were only able to sneak by them through our familiarity with the
region,” Iseult adds, walking up alongside her beau. “Were you headed to
Sorestan and Castle Chariot, then, King Arthur?”
“Where we are going is no concern of yours, Lady Iseult.”
She chuckles humorlessly. “No, I suppose not. Not until you trust us,
anyway.”
Tristan puts a hand on Iseult’s shoulder to calm her. It’s funny, because I’m
doing the same with Arthur. The roles seem reversed, with the king as the
spitfire, rather than me. I already knew Iseult had zero fucks to give. She’s a
baddie.
“What do you know of the army building against you?” Tristan asks us, his
head swiveling from face to face.
We admittedly look a little lost.
I say, “We’ve been out in the boonies for a while. I’m sure you understand
if our intelligence has been lacking. We were supposed to get word from allies
in Camelot—”
“That’s enough, Guinevere,” Arthur snaps.
My blood boils. I purse my lips and spin on him. “I’ve already made the
mistake of not speaking my truth to this man once, Arthur, and it nearly killed
me. He is not our enemy.”
 Back then, I could have told Tristan about Iseult’s whereabouts, but
Lancelot dissuaded me out of fear for how it might bite us in the ass.
Turned out not telling Tristan was the worse idea.
Tristan folds his arms over his chest, examining the taller king. Eventually,
his stern face softens, as he seems to come to a decision—probably about how
much to trust or reveal to Arthur, who isn’t exactly playing nice.
“Your nephew is gearing up for a military offensive across Logres,” Tristan
says.
Arthur doesn’t betray his surprise. “I imagined that would be the case. He’s
moving quickly, then, following his defeat in the valley near the River Hafren.”
“He’s kept his defeat mum, sir, from his people. I hear civil unrest has
begun anew in your kingdom, yet the majority of Camelot still supports the
usurper.”
Arthur strokes his chin. “And you don’t.”
Tristan shakes his head adamantly. “I acknowledge the True King of
Camelot. The son of Uther Pendragon, and owner of the Pendragon Circlet
by right. You may not be the king of my land, but I respect you and your
father before you.”
That makes Arthur a little less tense. I can see his muscles loosen, his face
softening. “And who are you, then, to bestow such respect?” he asks.
“My uncle is King Mark of Kernow, sir.”
Arthur grunts. Nods. Sees Tristan in a new light, perhaps.
Tristan gestures toward Iseult, presenting her like an equal. “She is Princess
Iseult of Hibernia, daughter of King Angus.”
At that, Arthur cracks his first tiny smile of the meeting. “Quite the royal
personhoods to be traveling alone, Prince Tristan and Princess Iseult. I respect
your gall.”
Tristan laughs. “Oh, we’re not alone, King Arthur.”
I tense. So does the king and everyone else on our side.
Tristan’s smile remains. “Ever since Iseult and I found each other, we’ve
been amassing a small militia for just such an eventuality. We all know kings
love power, and conquerors rarely stop at one conquest.”
Arthur cocks his head. “A militia of . . . what?”
“Men and women tired of being kept underfoot by tyrannical rulers, sir.
We’re only a smattering so far, but we’re dedicated.” Tristan points vaguely in
the distance. “We’ve made camp in the nearby woods, and would like to
formally invite you to attend our cohort. There, we can further discuss our
strategy.”
“Strategy . . . ?” I ask, trailing off. My eyes swivel to Arthur, who looks
skeptical. I’m starting to feel a bit worried, too, and wonder if I made a
mistake inviting Tristan and Iseult to speak with us.
Then Tristan bows to me—low, sweeping, formal. “Yes, Lady Guinevere.
Our strategy to help restore Arthur Pendragon to his rightful place on the
throne of Camelot, and instill some much-needed sanity and stability in this
gods-forsaken realm.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 9
Arthur

It never occurred to me I’d have allies this far outside Camelot. That being
unseated from my throne would have a chain reaction across Logres and
displace the rest of the kingdoms, their stability, and status quo.
Apparently, if this Tristan is to be believed, I’m not the only one angry
about the direction the continent is going.
It infuses me with vigor and conviction to know this man—charming in his
own right—could be producing an army on my behalf, without me even
knowing it.
Then again, I’m hesitant. Obviously so.
Guinevere has a tendency to be too trusting. She’s starting to see this world
for what it really is, but change comes slow. She is not the reserved, stoic type.
It’s one of the things I love about her—her gutsiness, resilience, and
recklessness. The ability to see the best in everyone she meets. Even me and
my dangerous knights.
Judging by her words, distrusting this man the first time didn’t work in her
favor. She’s using it as an excuse to justify her behavior and her proclivity for
putting her faith in strangers.
People change, though. Circumstances, ambitions, and landscapes shift.
The first time Guin met Tristan, he needed something from her. He was
desperate, evidently. Now, we need something from him. We are the desperate
ones, and I can’t let my hopefulness outweigh my healthy skepticism.
There’s a reason I’ve stayed alive so long in this war-torn, chaotic place.
I want to speak with my Ever Queen about what went on with her and
Lancelot during their weeks-long travels together. Then again, I know it’s not
my business, and I also know not to pry when it comes to Guinevere.
If she wants to tell me, she will.
For now, I have to weigh my options.
 Tristan and Iseult could easily be leading us into a trap. They might have
been good once, but now they could easily be working for my enemies. Leading
us into an ambush in the woods. It makes too much sense.
As I stare into Tristan’s deceptively kind eyes, I find myself mulling over my
options. Pursing my lips, unfolding them, rolling my tongue over my teeth.
Guin will be heartbroken if we don’t follow them to their camp, to meet the army he’s
supposedly building for us.
I scan my surroundings: plains, hills, grass, trees. Somewhere in the
distance, on the horizon, the tops of mountains and some off-colored shapes
—buildings and small towns.
Tristan and Iseult finding us, it’s . . . too easy. Too convenient and
coincidental. I need to know more.
“You say your uncle is King Mark?” I ask.
The young, handsome man gives me a small nod. His chin twitches. He
doesn’t enjoy speaking about his uncle.
“King Mark was my father’s ally,” I say, raising my brow, “and yet you are
Mark’s enemy?” That would, in turn, make you Uther’s enemy if he were still around.
Tristan threads his fingers around Iseult’s, holding her hand at his side. “I’m
sure you can see why. He is my enemy through no loathing of my own.”
“Stealing another man’s wife is not the action of a just knight.”
“I never claimed to be just. Or a knight, for that matter.” Tristan’s answer is
quick, fierce.
My eyebrows jump. Warning bells rise inside me.
The man looks suddenly ready to snap. I can tell what he’s thinking, but
refuses to say: What makes you the arbiter of chivalry and gallantry? Your land is
cursed. Your people fuck like rabbits, against every moral code of our people. You, yourself,
share a woman with four other men.
He wouldn’t be wrong to say any of it. But I’m the one who needs to trust
him, not the other way around. And, so far, he’s done nothing to win me over
to his side.
When Tristan opens his mouth to speak—undoubtedly to say the wrong
thing—Iseult puts an arm across his body, stopping him short. She says, “If I
tell you the circumstance of our bond, would that assuage your worries, king?”
“It would go a long way toward building trust, yes.”
Iseult glances over at Guinevere, which I find a bit odd. Almost as if they
have a prior connection that’s stronger than I initially realized.
 She says, “Tristan was sent by his uncle to retrieve me in Hibernia. My
father’s goal was to wed me to King Mark to form an alliance with Kernow
and the southern region of Logres. For trade.” She looks past me, expression
distant and pained. “This, of course, is the way of things.”
“You hated the idea,” Tristan cuts in.
“I did.” She clears her throat. “Our druids concocted a potion made from
Hibernian magic, which I was meant to drink in order to feel something for . .
. to accept King Mark. I was supposed to take it in his presence, because the
next person I interacted with I’d become enamored with.”
My head lurches. “A love potion?”
She nods. “Tristan accidentally drank it instead, after retrieving me.”
I frown. Look over at Guin, who is also staring at them with narrowed eyes,
as if her fellowship with them is a farce—built on a lie. Just like their love, I
suppose.
“You’re telling me your love was based on false pretenses. That is supposed
to help how—”
“The potion wore off, many, many moons ago,” Iseult interjects. She scoots
closer to Tristan, smiling at him, and their shoulders bump together. “Yet our
love for each other is stronger than ever.”
“How do you know it wore off ? What if you are under its spell right now?”
“We aren’t,” Tristan answers. His voice is flat, his coy smile for his woman
disappearing. “I assure you.”
I pause for a beat, looking to my knights. Their expressions are as I expect:
unsure how to react, what to do. I have to make the decision.
Guinevere does for me. “I think it’s lovely. An enchanting story.”
“You would, little one,” I murmur.
She spins on me, hands balling into fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I rub my forehead. “Your predisposition is too good for this world, Guin.
You know that.”
She pouts.
Tristan holds up his hands in surrender. “Look. Trust us, or don’t. It makes
no difference to me.”
“I thought this militia was being formed in my honor, to fight for me?”
“It is. But they’ll fight without you, too.” Tristan unthreads the reins of his
horse from the tree and tosses his apple core onto the ground. “We are going
to our camp. It’s that way.” He points in the distance. “You’ll be able to find
us. If you arrive before sundown tonight, I’ll know you’re serious about taking
your throne back.” With that, he nods to Guin, smiles, and says, “A pleasure
seeing you again, Lady Guinevere.”
Iseult does the same.
Minutes later, they’re on their horses, riding away.
I turn to my men and Guin. “I don’t like it.”
They’re staring strangely at me, as if their minds are already made up.
“What?” I growl.
“Castle Sauvage is days away, my liege,” Percival says with a shrug. “It’s not
going anywhere.”
My frown deepens. “Gawain?” I ask, because I know he will shoot down
Percival’s optimism. He’s the most like me, in that.
The dark knight surprises me. He cards a hand through his wild black
mane. “I am, admittedly, intrigued. It’s not every day allies literally sprout out
of the woodwork.”
“Precisely. That’s my worry.” My eyes narrow on him before I turn to my
seneschal. “Kay?”
He shrugs like the others. “Sometimes you have to take risks to do great
things.”
I throw my arms up. “All you do is take risks!”
“Yes.” He smiles, his beard twitches. “And look how far it’s gotten me. I’m
the steward to the King of Camelot, and his closest confidant.”
I want to slap my forehead. Am I the only one with any sense around here?
“We’re in need of an army. Fast.” Kay gestures wide. “One has walked right
up to us. At least the seed of one.”
“You don’t find that odd and eerily convenient?”
“Of course I do. Like I said, brother, I’m willing to take the risk if you are.”
He chuckles. “Plus, I sort of like the buggers. They seem more exciting to talk
to than you morose assholes all day.”
“Hey!” Guinevere shouts.
Kay backtracks, hands flying up. “Not including you, little lamb. Never you.
Come on.”
She pouts again, sticking her chin out. When she looks to me, she says,
“What will it be, King Arthur? It’s four against one. What do we have to lose?”
“Our lives. Our freedom.”
 She puts her hands on her hips, striking a pose. “Who is this and what have
you done with King Arthur? The king I know would see the potential benefits
outweigh the risks. He would be curious and embrace a bit of recklessness.”
“Like how I embraced your recklessness, little girl?”
She lifts her chin with a haughty smile. “Exactly.”
I shake my head, which is starting to throb with a dull ache. “Gah! You’re
incorrigible. Fine. Let’s go. But if we die, I’m blaming you, little one!”

† † †

I can smell their camp before I can see it through the trees. It smells like . . .
humanity, and all the piss and shit and cooking fires humanity has to offer. A
small white tendril of smoke rises up through a canopy in the thick foliage,
creating a lighthouse for us to follow as the sun begins to set for the night.
I took some convincing. Once we’re within the trees, surrounded by
likeminded soldiers and farmers and townspeople, I realize I might have been
a bit too cautious.
People bow to me. They slap my shoulder like I’m an old friend, smiling,
and treat my knights like royalty. They kiss Guinevere’s knuckles and speak to
her in hushed voices, telling her their grievances against their superiors and
what they wish to change.
It’s not the reverence that makes me feel welcome. It’s the camaraderie that
makes me feel at home. “I have missed this,” I find myself saying under my
breath.
Tristan and Iseult have gathered nearly a hundred people under their
invisible banner. A hundred souls willing to fight and die for change. They’re
strewn about the forest in makeshift tents and huts and shelters, crowding the
woods and making do with what they have.
For most of them, what they have is nothing more than the clothes on
their backs, a few rusty swords, rakes, and farming tools. Some battered old
shields. What they lack in accessories and material accoutrements, however,
they make up in spirit. They have that in spades.
Conviction. Drive. Motivation. Dedication. Tenacity.
I see it on their faces—young and old. A few children are present. Women
stir big pots of communal stew for supper for everyone, laughing and working
like they’re in the kitchens of a castle. Like they’ve already won.
 That evening, after the shared dinner, Guinevere catches me smiling and
bumps my shoulder with hers as we survey the scene together. “Not bad,
huh?” she says with a smirk.
I’ll give her this. She’s won.
I return the smile. “You were right, little one. It’s . . . enchanting.”
“And to think, they’re all here for you.”
I let out a fussing sound, shaking my head, not so sure of that. “No.
They’re here for themselves, I believe. For a new life. They just hope I’m the
one who can provide it.”
“The pressure’s mounting, isn’t it? Doesn’t it feel real now? Our mission?”
“It feels . . .” I trail off, sighing, trying to find the right words. “It feels like
the start of something. Daunting, definitely. Yet also reassuring.” I face her.
“We’re not alone any longer. Our dream and ambition is becoming something
more. Bigger than us.”
Her smile widens. “I know. It’s the first time I’ve seen the light behind your
eyes in weeks.” She goes on her tiptoes and kisses me softly.
I hold onto her arms, pulling her flush against me, lingering with that kiss. I
want to drag her behind the trees and take her right here, but I know I
shouldn’t.
Painfully, I resist the urge to make love to Guinevere so we can bask in this
glory together. “I’m sorry I doubted you, little one,” I say gently in her ear.
“Never again.”
When she lands on the flats of her feet, she cradles my chin in her palm,
searching my face. “You didn’t doubt me, love. You doubted yourself. We’ve
been without allies for too long—so long that everyone seems like an enemy.”
“You’re right.”
“I know.” She winks at me with a sly smirk. “I’m good at reading people,
Arthur, and a good judge of character. It’s what’s going to make me a good
queen.”
Yes, my love, you’re right about that, too.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 10
Arthur

Early next morning, I prepare to ride out with Tristan, Guinevere, and my
knights. Iseult is staying behind with the army, to make sure they stay well-
hidden.
While saddling my horse, I ask Tristan, “Where are we going?”
“Today? We’re riding into Pengwern.”
I see Lancelot and Guinevere stiffen at the news.
Lancelot stammers, “Um, yes, well, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.
We have . . . history there.”
Tristan smiles at the skittish knight. “So do I, remember? The difference
between me and you, Sir Lancelot?” He winks. “Everyone loves me in
Pengwern.”
“Even after killing the guards who planned to execute me?”
“Those guards were Castle Chariot men. Once the corrupt marshal died,
the townsfolk liberated themselves. Now we’re going to pick up the stragglers
who want to really fight.”
Guinevere rushes forward, turning Tristan to face her. “Wait, the marshal
of Pengwern died? Sir Meleagant?”
Tristan’s smile falters. “Oh. Yes. You didn’t hear?”
My eyes zero in on her, and then Lancelot, as they share a strange look.
Guinevere’s eyebrows furrow, and Lancelot appears like he would rather be
anywhere else right now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s a look of shock
and guilt, respectively.
Lancelot has been keeping secrets again. Even from our queen.
Can’t let that stand.
We ride off quickly, trotting out of the forest. Once we’re in the plains,
with the morning breeze whipping our hair and cloaks, I feel alive again. Like
I’m finally making a difference.
 I let go of my reservations and caution. Guinevere is right—I need to trust
myself, and my gut. I’ve been betrayed many times, but that doesn’t mean that
every interaction I have is a potential betrayal.
I know she would never betray me, for instance.
By horse, Pengwern is two hours from the woods.
While we’re riding, I sidle up alongside Tristan and shout over the wind,
“You said you snuck past the Queen of Sorestan’s toll roads and highwaymen.
How did you do it with so many people in your entourage?”
He flashes a charming smile. “That was, erm . . . a bit of a white lie.”
My forehead wrinkles. More alarm bells, but I push them down. “What?”
“I promised my group if I found you, I’d bring you back to meet them.
They were desperate to see you in person, Arthur!”
“So there are no toll roads? No highwaymen this direction?”
“There are! They’re just further south.”
With my mouth still open to speak, he whips his reins and rides off so he
doesn’t have to continue this conversation. Chuckling to himself.
I flare my nostrils, and we continue on.
When we reach Pengwern, I see it’s a frontier town brushing against rule of
law now that Sir Meleagant—a former knight of mine, and a defector,
evidently—is dead.
There is no violence while we’re there. People seem content, without a
superior to look over their shoulders.
It makes sense. If they need to, they’ll make their own rules.
We spend the final hours of afternoon following Tristan through town as
he mingles and speaks with every person he can. The man lives for holding
court. I have to admit he’d make a good addition in my own court, if only for
the entertainment value.
He’s brought his lute. In one of the city’s taverns, he trades off playing
jaunty tunes with Percival. It’s the first time I’ve seen Percival smiling and
happy since this all started—playing a lute, singing with his melodic, angelic
voice, with Tristan joining him in revelry.
“If we’re not careful, we’re going to leave this place drunk,” I yell to Guin
over the loud applause and hollering.
She’s standing next to me in the corner of the tavern, soaking it all in. She
has a huge smile on her face, admiring Percival.
 I scan the tavern and notice it’s getting busier. With the sun setting, people
are coming in from their day’s labor to drink and be merry.
I recognize many faces. Faces I met earlier today.
That’s when Tristan rolls an empty barrel into the middle of the room. He
stands on it, wobbling and dancing, much to the delight of the large audience.
He has everyone’s attention.
His eyes shoot over to me, and I see a gleam in them.
Another dangerous signal goes off in my head. It takes everything in me
not to bolt up from my position where I’m leaning against the wall. My body
stiffens. Just what are you planning, boy? I swear, if you decide to betray us now, you’ll
never make it off that fucking barrel.
He clears his throat loudly, strumming his instrument to make sure he has
the whole room captivated. There are nearly a hundred people in this sweaty,
stuffy, drunk place.
“People of Pengwern. These are my friends,” he announces. “They
reunited me with my love. A princess, in fact.”
A burst of “ahhs” from the audience. Eyes shoot over to me, Guin,
Percival, Gawain, Kay. Suspicion is starting to tinge in my people’s eyes as they
realize we might have made a terrible mistake in trusting this foolish man.
Then Tristan waves his hands in a flourish. “But I’m not here to wax poetic
about their virtues, or mine. I am here for your sake.”
The sea of gazes shoots back to Tristan. Serious and concerned.
“Morgan le Fay has the Holy Grail.”
Gasps of shock.
“You know of the dead land that is Camelot? The cesspool of Gorre not
more than a week’s ride from here, clambering with wretched monsters?”
Everyone is dead silent. The laughs are gone.
My heart pounds. My palms sweat. He’s saying too fucking much! How does he
know all that?
Tristan raises his arms over his head. “If the Witch Queen Morgan le Fay
uses the Grail—which I believe is only a matter of time—all the territories
across Logres will run the risk of becoming the next Camelot and Gorre.”
More concerned voices. People glancing at one another in consternation,
blinking with their bleary eyes.
This wasn’t the revelry they came to take part in.
The show is over. The music is done. The truth is much harder to hear.
 “Do you want that to happen?” Tristan asks.
A few squeaks of “No,” and cries of dismay.
He yells it this time: “Do you want that to happen, people of Pengwern?!”
“NO!”
The anguished shouts are a crescendo. A chorus of rebels in the making.
They know their pleasant, lawless days can’t last. Perhaps they just need
something like this to remind them of the real world—the world outside their
little utopia without rules.
Again, Tristan sweeps his arm over to me and Guinevere. His voice is
softer, yet filled with resolve and conviction. “Then join me, friends. Join me
in following King Arthur, as he takes down his wicked sister, Morgan le Fay, and
brings peace to the land.”
I could kill him. Throttle him for outing me like this and putting me at the
forefront of everyone’s attention, when we’re supposed to be traveling silently,
like ghosts, across the land.
It seems the decision has been made for me. I can no longer hide under my
hood and mask my presence in Logres. In that sense, I ran right into Tristan’s
trap.
“Jeez,” Guinevere mutters, shaking her head. “Looks like King Arthur is
back, love.”
I seethe. My nostrils flare, my chin twitches.
But I don’t end up throttling Tristan, or even reprimanding him . . . because
we leave Pengwern with forty-three new soldiers to add to our budding army.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 11
Guinevere

I’m ecstatic when we return to our base camp in the woods north of
Pengwern. Exhausted, yes, but I know I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. The
looks on my guys’ faces tells me they feel the same way, rejuvenated and ready
to rock.
I’ve always known networking is a key component to success. I just never
thought it would translate from my world to Logres.
Who knew we needed someone like Tristan to jumpstart our counter-
rebellion? In some ways, it makes sense: As a traveling minstrel, he’s met
people all across the realm. He’s probably traveled to every little town and
village around these parts, in search of Iseult, and has met people on the lower
rungs of society. Drank with them. Commiserated with them. Befriended
them.
I’m so glad we have him on our side. What began as a rocky relationship, to
say the least, has burgeoned into an alliance that might forge the very future of
Logres.
In the woods, things are getting crowded. The party has moved from the
tavern to the outdoors, like a bunch of kids throwing a full-moon party in the
forest. We have the fires going, the dancing, the music—everyone relishing
this last night together before we get down to brass tacks in the morning.
Nearly half the able-bodied men and women from the tavern in Pengwern
joined our cause.
I want to take part in the revelry, but I have a few things to check off my
list before I do. When I see Arthur and Tristan speaking to each other near
one of the tents, I creep up to them. I’m a little annoyed as I near them, not
happy they’re having a clandestine meeting without me. Their voices are
hushed, and I can’t hear them over the boisterous sounds and cheers
surrounding us.
 When I pop up behind Arthur and say, “What are we talking about, guys?”
they both stiffen and turn to me.
“Our plans moving forward, little one. Tonight has been a success, yet it’s
only the first step toward our larger goal.”
I throw an arm around his waist. “I know, my king. I just wish you would
include me in the conversation.”
His stoic face softens, eyes crinkling as he squishes me against his side and
runs a hand through my hair, petting me. “I didn’t want to bore you with the
logistics.”
“No way!” I chirp, even as my body grows hot from being so close to him,
his hard muscles pressing against my skin through my clothes. “I’m in it to win
it, man. You should know that. Won’t be much of an Ever Queen if I don’t
know what’s going on in my own queendom, will I?”
Tristan pops his brow, eyes darting between us, before he chuckles. “We
were discussing what we’re up against, Lady Guinevere.”
“And?”
“So far, King Ector of Sauvage has pledged himself to Mordred. So have
my uncles, King Mark, and King Meliadus of Lyonesse. With those two,
Mordred has essentially shored up the southern territories of Logres. With
Ector, he has the region directly north of Camelot, too.”
I chew my lip nervously. “That doesn’t sound too promising.”
“I was lucky to be able to shave off a tenth of my uncle’s army. Rebels, he
calls them. I consider them loyalists.”
A smile dances near my lips. “Quite dastardly of you, Sir Tristan. You steal
his woman then you steal his army.”
His face tints in the moonlight with a bashful expression. “If only I
could’ve stolen more troops.”
Damn. Ruthless. Guess you have to be in this medieval-ass scenario. No room to be
meek.
Arthur squeezes my shoulder, rubbing his thumb in circles. “With the
added folks we’ve gathered tonight from Pengwern, this force is suddenly too
cumbersome to move without being noticed.”
“Yes.” Tristan taps his chin. “Word will get out soon, if it hasn’t already.
You’re on the map now, King Arthur. I hope you realize that.”
“The map? You mean the battlefield.”
“Right.”
 “I understand I’ve made myself known to the realm, and I appreciate the
assistance.” Arthur grunts. “Where will you go, since you obviously can’t move
south without being spotted and possibly attacked? This regiment is not in
fighting condition, as I’m sure you know.”
“Of course. As originally planned, Iseult and I will go west, to Hibernia,
where we can request the assistance of her father, King Angus.”
When I tilt my head, I see Arthur folding his lips, as if he isn’t sold on the
idea. “What are the chances King Angus might be persuaded to help us?”
“They would be much higher if you were with us.”
Arthur shakes his head. “We have prior obligations. Before you ran across
us, we were moving for Castle Sauvage. Hoping to make Ector doubt his
allegiance to Mordred.”
“Good luck with that,” Tristan says with a heavy sigh. “King Ector is a
stubborn man, from all accounts.”
“That and much worse, Sir Tristan. I know the man well. He served on my
father’s Round Table before he got too big for his britches. I hope to remind
him of that. We have Sir Kay, his son, on our side.”
Tristan starts nodding along, like he’s hardly paying attention. Glancing up
at the taller king, his head tilts. “Understood. Why do you call me ‘Sir’ . . . sir?”
Arthur’s face breaks into a knowing expression. “I was hoping you would
consider becoming a Knight of the Round Table. After what you’ve done for
us.”
My mouth falls open. I blurt out, “Does that mean a knighting?! Do I get
to see a knighting?”
Tristan is stunned silent.
Arthur chuckles in his deep, rich voice. “If Tristan accepts, then yes, little
one.”
“I do,” Tristan shoots out quickly. He sounds eager to join the illustrious
band of champions. “Accept, that is.”
Arthur’s face sinks a bit, before he grins. “Excellent. When I am king once
more, you will sit beside me at the Round Table. For now, sadly, your status
must be relegated to that of an honorary knight.”
Tristan salutes. His eyes gleam in the moonlight. Are those tears I see? “I
understand . . . my king.” The musician-turned-warlord gives King Arthur a
heartfelt bow, sweeping low. Then he falls to a knee and dips his chin. “I vow
to fight in your honor, King Arthur, until the day comes I can officially be
recognized as a knight in your court.”
When he’s finished giving his oath, Tristan stands. He seems taller, prouder,
with his shoulders back and his chest pumped out.
I want to cry for him. This is a big fucking moment. It’s too bad it has to be
drowned out by a bunch of drunken partiers nearby, dancing, wrestling, rolling
in the mud.
Arthur nods firmly. “You head west to Hibernia. It’s a long trek—the sea
can be a cruel mistress. How much time will you need?”
Tristan taps his clean-shaven chin, staring up at the swirls of smoke drifting
into the sky. “Give me a month. I’ll mobilize these peasants into a cohesive
fighting force.”
Arthur raises his brow. “You think you can do that? Turn these farmers
into fighters?”
“Hibernians are fierce warriors and tacticians. These people will learn from
them.”
Arthur seems pleased, giving another small nod. “I trust you with them.
Even if you have no prior battlefield knowledge I’m aware of.”
A glimpse of mischief crosses Tristan’s features. “Just a friendly bard, my
liege.”
I don’t believe that for a second. One day, I’m going to have to learn more about
this elusive minstrel. Maybe, just maybe, he could become the court’s entertainer. Like Sir
Dagonet.
Thinking of the jester we lost puts a lump in my throat. More like a brother
than a simple comedian. I miss that bald, self-deprecating dandy. No one will ever fill
his flamboyant shoes, but I hope Tristan can provide us with the spark we need to finish this
war once and for all.
Arthur slaps a hand on Sir Tristan’s shoulder. “A month, then. Once you
have your regiment settled and ready, move east. Hopefully by then I have a
regiment of my own, and we will convene in these woods.”
Tristan punches his fist into an open palm. “I look forward to seeing you
soon, my king. And you, Lady Guinevere.”

† † †
“You sure we shouldn’t go with them?” I ask Arthur once we leave the
shadows of the tent and return to the party.
“We move fluidly as a small group, and can’t move hundreds of people
across this country without putting them in jeopardy. They are not ready for
battle yet. Clearly.”
To make his point, he juts his chin at two guys who are circling each other.
More like wobbling. Their fists are cocked for some fisticuffs, but they keep
fumbling and falling over each other. A half-circle of sloppy onlookers laughs
at them as they slip into the mud near a bonfire.
“Point taken. It’s just . . . Tristan seems . . .”
“What?” Arthur asks seriously.
His change in tone makes a shiver run up my spine. “Well,” I eke out, “he’s
charismatic. Maybe more than any of us.” I feel bad for calling out Arthur—I
know he’s a very capable leader. But there’s something about Sir Tristan
commoners respect and enjoy. The same can’t be said of my surly, severe king.
Luckily, Arthur doesn’t snap at me. He doesn’t get angry, instead chortling
to himself. “Yes, I’m aware of my limitations. You must understand, Sir
Tristan is playing to the common man’s interest. I must negotiate with kings.
The two audiences are vastly different. The kings of this land would not give
Tristan a second glance. He is perfect for this audience, but we all have our
limitations. You see?”
I gulp and nod diligently. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I do.”
“Good girl.”
My head shoots up.
Arthur smirks at me.
God, it melts me. I’m ready for him to rip my clothes off in front of
everyone here. I don’t even give a shit. You can’t just praise me like that, smirk
with that stupidly hot face of his, and expect me to walk to my tent like there’s
not a river running between my legs.
I spot a familiar face over his shoulder, watching us from another fire.
When he sees I’ve noticed him, his eyes quickly dart away and his head turns.
Arthur sees I’ve lost focus. He tips my chin, forcing me to acknowledge
him. “What is it, little one?”
“As much as I want you to drag me into your tent and defile me so hard I
can’t think straight—just like last night—I have other matters I need to take
care of.”
 He slowly looks over his shoulder then grunts in a disapproving way. He
lets out a soft sigh, brow arching menacingly, gray eyes narrowing. “Your loss,
little girl.”
My knees nearly buckle. “Avalon fuck me,” I croak. “Don’t I know it.” With
that, I storm past him, trying to get my rubbery legs to work properly. Before I
make it far, I spin around. “Oh, I forgot to mention.”
He meets my gaze.
“Do it for Iseult, too.”
“Do what?”
“Knight her. None of what Tristan accomplished could have happened
without her. It still can’t happen without her connections in Hibernia.”
A smirk chases surprise away from his gorgeous lips. “There’s never been a
female Knight of the Round Table.”
I bob my shoulders up to my ears. “So? Times are a-changin’, sir. In my
queendom, there will be. Sir Iseult will be the first one.”
Arthur lets out a low laugh. Acceptance settles over his features. Then that
sinister I-want-to-fuck-the-life-out-of-you expression returns. His voice is a
welcoming purr. “And I can’t wait to witness what our realm becomes under
your rule, my bratty Ever Queen.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 12
Guinevere

“What have you been keeping from me?” I call out, nearing the tall, cloaked
figure warming his hands at the bonfire.
It’s not very cold tonight. With the fires, the body heat of these people
rubbing against each other, the closed canopies keeping the heat inside, I
know he can’t be cold. No, this is just his way to avoid facing me, because he
knows he’s fucked once he does.
I’m not sure what’s become of me. I’m out here calling everyone out, when
I should be drinking and relishing the debauchery around me before things get
serious again.
I want trust between me and my knights. I don’t want it, I need it. If we’re
going to make this work, and retake Camelot, there can’t be secrets between
us.
Just the thought of the word “secrets” makes me feel guilty, like a
hypocrite. There’s so much I want to say—more about King Arthur than
anything else—yet I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m stuck in the same routine
I’ve been in before, where I’m flip-flopping about spilling the truth because I
know how drastic it might be.
This one, in particular, could change the fundamental nature of the entire
continent.
Mordred is Arthur’s son.
Arthur needs to know, eventually, before we fight Mordred. Sooner rather
than later. At the same time, I need to be tactical about it. An issue this
sensitive can’t just be blurted out around a campfire where any sauced
drunkard can hear us and spread the news around the countryside.
Mordred is Arthur’s son, and he knows nothing of his participation in it, because it
involved my ancestor. And the memories of my ancestors have been erased from everyone’s
mind by the “cycle” caused by the Holy Grail.
 Merlin showed me so much, yet I’m still having trouble making sense of it.
Thus, strategizing—my approach, when to tell it to Arthur, how to do it to
soften the blow—is paramount.
How can I soften this blow? That Arthur was tricked by his own freaking
sister into screwing a shape-shifted version of me, and impregnating her.
I shake my head and put my hands on my hips. One secret at a time, and for
now, I’m already busting this one down. “Did you not hear me?” I say loudly. God, I
sound like such a bitch.
A couple people huddled on the other side of the fire shuffle away once
they hear my raised voice.
Sir Lancelot finally speaks, staring into the waving flames. “I heard you,
fireheart.”
His voice is softer than usual. Defeated. He knows the jig is up.
“Well?” I go to him and put a hand on his shoulder, which makes his tight
body jolt. Pity and sadness run through me. It takes a moment for him to
loosen. “Oh, Lance . . . you know you don’t have to be scared of me.” My
voice is quieter now.
I didn’t expect this reaction from him. Not from a man as powerful and
authoritative as Sir fucking Lancelot. I put my head against his shoulder. “You
know that, don’t you?”
He wraps an arm around my middle. “Of course I do, my love.”
I stare at the profile of his face—sharp, angular in the firelight, with
shadows dancing across the small scars lining his cheeks and brow. “Then why
are you keeping secrets from me?”
He finally faces me, chin dipping. “I’m not scared of you, Guin, I’m scared
for you. Scared of how I might destroy you, like you’ve destroyed me. Worried
you’ll learn I’m not the man you think I am. Not the honorable knight worthy
of your love.”
“Of course you’re worthy.” I swallow thickly and stand back to watch his
golden eyes dance with the fire. “After all you’ve done for me? No one is more
worthy of my love than you, Lancelot. I think I’ve been through more with
you than I have with any of the others, even.”
My heart hurts to hear him sound so dispirited. Whatever he’s keeping
from me, it can’t be that bad—not enough to destroy what we’ve worked to
build.
 A smirk curls my lips. “I’ve already learned you’re not the man I thought
you were, once I realized you were a freaking demon with wings.”
He doesn’t match my smile. His face is still serious, solemn, conflicted.
“You weren’t terrified of me.”
“Not once I realized it was you.”
“You searched for me when I escaped the battle and flew headfirst into that
barn. Even after I left you.”
I smile gently and run my fingers over his corded arm, tracing a thick vein.
I roam down, until I’m holding his hand, weaving my fingers with his. “I
already punished you for leaving me. We’re past that.”
This time, he can’t stop a devious smirk from showing. “Sitting on my face
and forcing me to pleasure you are punishments I wish I could receive until
the end of time.”
“You can count on it.” I wink and blush. Even though my core ignites with
the same heat as the fire around us, my roguish smile falters. “I don’t want to
punish you anymore, Lance. You’ve gotten enough of that with Galehaut,
Morgan le Fay, and everything else.”
He looks ashamed, turning away.
I squeeze closer, basically draping my body over his. He can’t ignore me for
long when I do that, and I can already see the telltale sign it’s working by the
way his pants strain. “Tell me what else. Please. I saw the way you froze when
Tristan mentioned Sir Meleagant’s death. Did you . . . what happened, love?”
His beautiful, kissable lips purse when he faces me. The distant, closed-off
warrior replaces the desperate lover. “I made a decision, Guin, to make sure he
could never hurt you again . . .”
My throat bobs as I reel back.
“. . . he or anyone else in Castle Chariot.”
I blink rapidly. “What are you saying, Lancelot? After I went into the woods
with the others, did you leave to . . .”
“To slaughter the inhabitants of that castle? Yes, fireheart, I did.” His voice
is so businesslike as he says it, my blood runs cold. “That is why I’m unworthy
of your love,” he explains, taking both my hands in his, “because I’m so
unpredictable. When my demon blood rises to the surface, I lash out in violent
explosions I can’t control. You saw it in the woods when we rescued Iseult,
and in Pengwern. And when I fought Sir Galehaut. You saw it on the
battlefield when I murdered Mordred’s brothers—evil knights, yet Knights of
the Round Table all the same. Former brothers of mine.”
I should feel terrified about everything he’s admitting. My blood is chilled
but my body is warm. I replay those moments in my head . . . and realize I can’t
feel sorry about any of them. I don’t feel shame or regret during those
instances of violent outbursts. I think it’s because I know he did them for me. I
am the object of his intense desire and love, and with me come the violent
tendencies.
That is how I destroy Lancelot. I see that now. Without me, he might even
be docile. When I’m thrown in the mix, I spring to life the dangerous beast
clawing so close to the surface.
“You did those things,” I say, my throat dry, “yet I still stayed with you. And
I’ll always be by your side, because it’s where I belong.”
He studies me, staying silent. His eyes don’t betray what he’s feeling—it’s
the mask I’m so used to seeing, unable to read. Our eyes are locked together.
My pupils tremble, taking in every inch of his gorgeous, imperfect, scarred
face.
The scars inside this man, more than the external ones on his skin, are what
make him who he is. They make him the man I love.
“I wouldn’t change a thing, Lancelot.” I duck my head against his chest,
wrapping my arms around his waist.
“Truthfully?” His voice is hopeful.
“Truthfully.”
He slowly accepts my embrace. His arms come up to hold me tight and
cherish me. “I love you so much, Guin. The fiery outsider who burrowed her
way into my heart and refuses to get out.”
I close my eyes. A tear runs down my cheek when I smile. “Never. I’m not
going anywhere, and you better not either. For better or for worse, you’re stuck
with me.”
“Thank you.” His voice is a murmur. Even though we’re standing, I could
fall asleep to the relaxing tones coming from his lips, and the gentle way his
body slowly rocks with mine. “I will try to be better, fireheart. I will try to
change.”
That wakes me up. My head jolts. “No,” I snap.
His brow furrows in confusion.
 “I said it once. I’ll say it again: You don’t have to hide yourself from me.
Any piece of you. Warrior, vagabond, lover, demon. I want it all. You’re
fucking mine. Every inch of you. And I’m fucking yours. Every inch of me.”
Desire flashes behind his eyes, dimming just as quickly, with more shame
etched into the lines near his mouth. His excuses come fast and hard. They
come from a place of deep insecurity he’s likely never expressed with anyone
else.
I’m ready for them. I’m in radical acceptance mode, and he can’t push away
my love for him.
“I’m savage, my queen. Feral.”
“I wouldn’t have you any other way.” You’re not half as feral as I am, Lance,
even as a freaking demon.
“I’m a danger to you.”
“No. You’re not. Never to me.”
His eyebrows arch hopelessly. “I worry even your fire can’t tame me,
Guinevere.”
I go on my tiptoes and ram my lips against his. Our kiss is passionate and
fierce and sudden, with the backdrop of the campfire snapping, shadows
dancing across our faces, tongues melding together.
When I pull away, I’m smiling, breathless.
“Then we’ll burn together, my savage knight.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 13
Guinevere

Oddly and surprisingly, Lancelot and I don’t take it any further that night. Our
single kiss is enough to keep us satiated. For now.
It’s mainly because Lancelot has things to discuss with Arthur about the
coming days. I’ve already had enough talk of war with Arthur for tonight, so I
let Lance go do his thing.
To my chagrin, I regret my decision once he leaves. Lancelot wrapping
Arthur up for the foreseeable future puts a damper on my lewd plans to jump
their bones later.
Shit, I think with a sigh, pouting as I stare into the fire. I’ve lost my opportunity.
Should have just pulled his cock out and not let him leave. God knows the rest of this forest
is about to explode into an unsupervised orgy, with all the booze floating around and the
perfect pockets of solitude in these woods. And Pengwern doesn’t even have Camelot’s curse!
What’s their excuse?
I’m wound tight from confronting Lancelot, yet also loose from the way it
ended. The contrast feels weird. I have to remember it was only last night
Arthur and Lancelot tag-teamed me and demolished my body so hard I
couldn’t walk right for half the day today.
As I stare deeper into the fire and my eyes get droopy, I recognize I’m
exhausted. It all hits me at once. The torrid session last night, the early
morning travels, the horseback riding to and from Pengwern, all the talking
and strategizing and alliance-building. Shit, I’m tired as hell.
Which produces quite a conundrum because I’m still horny as fuck from
the way my conversations ended with both King Arthur and Sir Lancelot.
I check behind me, over my shoulder, and don’t see Lance anywhere. Some
shadows flit around, but I can tell they aren’t my guys. I don’t want to go
searching.
 “Fuck it,” I say under my breath. I leave the warmth of the fire and head
for my tent. I’ll probably be okay if I go one freaking night without getting my back
blown out.
Turns out, lady luck disagrees.

† † †

I’m walking through a maze of messy tents, scratching my head. “Could have
sworn mine was over in this quadrant,” I mutter to myself.
I throw my arms up, circle a tree I thought was my landmark, and pass a few
other makeshift lodgings. It’s when I’m passing the last tent that I hear two
familiar voices coming from the flap—one demanding, the other strained.
“Just shut the fuck up and suck my cock like a good boy,” says the raspy,
demanding one. “I’m tired of talking about this. Or would you rather I plug
your asshole full and have you screaming in the hopes she might hear your
gargled cries?”
After that introduction, I stop and listen like a perv.
“Gah, you’re so obscene,” says the strained voice, nearly whimpering. “I
just don’t want her to forget us.”
A condescending scoff. “Where’s all the renewed confidence you were so
proud of before? Do you break that easily, going without her for a single
night? Are you so jealous—”
“Shut up—”
I throw the flap open and duck into the tent. “Okay, that’s enough, you
two,” I say before I’m even inside. “You’re incorrigible. Can’t you two get
along without—oh, my, what do we have here?”
Sir Gawain is reclined on the cot, his fat erect cock held in his fist. He’s
wagging it next to Sir Percival’s face, who’s on his hands and knees at the foot
of the small bed.
The space inside the tent is stuffy, reeking of masculinity and musk. I think
there’s enough room for a third.
A candle flickers near Gawain’s face. When he smiles, it throws shadows
over his wicked, gaunt visage. “Look who it is. Ask and you shall receive, eh,
sunflower?”
Percy shoots a look over his shoulder, his fair cheeks blushing furiously.
He’s an incredibly beautiful man, long golden hair mussed around his face.
“Snoop,” he groans, embarrassed. “There she goes snooping again. We were
just—”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re about to suck Gawain off.”
He blushes harder, if it’s possible. “Well . . . yes. I don’t want you seeing me
like this.”
“You kidding? You look even prettier with Gawain’s big dick next to your
face.”
He smiles timidly.
Gawain is right. Percy’s lost the confidence he so easily exudes when I’m
around. This is the same meek Percy I first met in Camelot. I feel it’s my fault,
partly.
Gawain’s cock throbs when he hears me speak in such lewd terms.
“Dammit, lark, you’re going to make me blow before I even get started.”
I take a step forward. My eyes gleam in the firelight when I get closer to
Percival and run my hands over his bare ass, palming his balls. I go to my
knees, next to him. “Think there’s enough room for a girl to squeeze in? Or
are you . . . fully occupied?”
Gawain chuckles darkly at my bobbing eyebrows. “For you? There’s always
room.” He sits up, propping his elbows.
“Thank God,” I say with a sigh. “I could use a drama-free fuck after the
night I’ve had.” I reach under my tunic to take it off.
Gawain tsks, stopping me when the shirt is halfway over my head. “Just
know, in my tent, you play under my rules. Here, you’re not the Ever Queen.
You’re my good little whore. Understood?”
I gulp hard. Nod diligently. I’m already on my knees, so I fold my hands in
my lap. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good. Then Percival will help you with your clothes. Get to it, sunflower.”
He snaps his fingers once.
Percy scoots over to me on his knees, stares with his cerulean eyes, and
smiles. He takes my chin, tilts it, and envelops me in a tender kiss.
Gawain watches as Percy’s hand dips under my tunic. He brings it over my
head and plays with my hardened nipples once my breasts bounce down. He
deepens the kiss, letting my tongue win the battle of dominance. I feel his long
cock smearing precum against my thigh, then spearing between my legs.
Gawain grunts. He strokes himself as he watches. Then he clears his throat.
We both look over at him, our cheeks flushed, the heady scent of desire
clouding the room. “That’s enough,” he says. “Get over here, princesses, and
work this fat thing together.” He slaps his cock into his palm with a hefty thud.
Percy and I glance at each other. “Yes, sir,” we say in unison, and crawl to
the end of the cot. Gawain spreads his legs so we can both fit into the space.
I go low, Percy goes high. The sunflower knight widens his mouth and
takes Gawain’s cock past his lips. When Gawain lets out a hiss from the wet
warmth of Percival’s tongue and mouth, his heavy balls tighten.
I lick the crease of his sack and take one of his balls into my mouth. I
fondle him while Percival bobs his head, slurping and vacuuming Gawain’s
cock like a needy little slut. Like a man desperate to do well and please his
partner.
Gawain lifts his legs. Suddenly his muscular thighs are framing my face,
squishing my cheeks. He locks me into place while I slobber on his nutsack,
and my face turns red. My airway cuts off, and within seconds I’m choking.
He has Percival leg-locked also, ramming his cock into the blond knight’s
tight throat.
“Such good girls,” Gawain murmurs.
My head is moving and I can’t control it. Up and down, up and down, with
every thrust from Gawain. I grip the undersides of his thighs, tapping him,
and he finally relents.
His balls plop out of my mouth and I cough, dipping my head while I try
to catch my breath.
“Oh no,” Gawain says, seeing me turn away from him. “You don’t get off
that easy, little lark. Help her, Percy.”
Percival nods, and my brow furrows. I don’t know what he has in store but
—
He shoves my head deep between Gawain’s legs, planting my face on the
dark knight’s ass. Abruptly, without any control of my own, I’m rimming
Gawain, laving my tongue over the tight ring of his asshole, tasting him while
his balls spool over the bridge of my nose.
My eyes widen, but I can’t see a thing.
Not wanting to get beat in this perverted ladder of depravity, I feel around
blindly behind me, until I latch onto Percival’s neck.
I reciprocate Percival’s actions, shoving his face forward, even though I
can’t see—
 And I’m rewarded with strangled gags as Gawain’s cock is forced back into
his mouth. With my other hand, I slide south and play with myself, furiously
fingering my pussy and rubbing my clit until I’m a leaky mess.
We whimper and moan at Gawain’s feet. Caught between his legs. I lift up
for air and put both hands on the back of Percival’s head. I push him hard,
down Gawain’s shaft, until the knight’s nose touches Gawain’s belly and his
face turns pink, veins popping over his neck and forehead, struggling to fit
Gawain’s impressive girth.
“‘Atta boy, Percy, throat that big fucking cock until he’s pumping cum into
your belly,” I growl through gritted teeth.
Gawain snarls, “The spitfire has come out to play. Good. Get your tight
fucking ass over here, whore.”
My whole body is sweaty from nearly suffocating from Gawain’s leg-lock. I
do as he says, out of my mind. I slide out of my pants and crawl onto the cot,
over him, my arms trembling with anticipation.
Gawain gives me a sinful grin as he looks up at me. Then he lurches,
reaches behind me with both hands, and grips my ass cheeks hard. He spreads
me apart at the middle. “Return the favor for our little slut, sunflower.”
I can’t see Percival, but I feel his wet tongue seconds later, lapping my
juices, caressing my seam. He makes a mess of my puckered asshole and I
moan in Gawain’s ear.
When Gawain lowers me onto his cock, I see stars. Everything goes dizzy
from the pleasure of that thick slab filling my pussy while another knight laves
my asshole with his perfect tongue.
I dip my chin to rest it on Gawain’s head. He slides lower in the cot—he
can do that, being a bit shorter than the others—and starts nibbling and
tonguing my hanging tits while he fucks me.
His thrusts are violent and fast, balls slapping into Percival’s chin since the
blond knight has his face lodged between my rear.
My eyes roll, wild and lost. I grip the coarse sheets at Gawain’s sides while
he destroys my pussy and feasts on my breasts at the same time, hugging me
tight. I let out a long, throaty mewl as I come, my body trembling from the
multiple things going on to me. My body feels so exquisite, so removed from
my physical being—like they’re fucking my spirit and I’m just here to
experience it.
I’m outside myself.
 When my climax ends, the pressure remains at my core, and I come
whooshing back to reality. My body is bouncing, moving in a blur.
I want to claw, punch—do something to get these aggressive feelings out of
me. When Gawain’s cock leaves my pussy, I blink, stutter-stopping with a gasp.
“W-What?”
Then they’re both behind me, and I’m still on all fours like a show dog,
completely exposed at the other end of the cot. Showing both of them my
glistening holes and dripping juices.
Gawain pushes forward—I know it’s his cock because I can tell the
difference between these two. They’re both beautiful, and though Percival is
longer, Gawain is thicker.
They’re perfect complements to each other.
Gawain’s fat cockhead pushes my pussy lips apart. Hands embed in my ass
cheeks as he grunts out, “Your tight pussy was made for my cock, lark. Like
the best fucking puzzle.”
I have no response. I can’t think when he fucks me doggystyle like this.
He doesn’t stop there. No, he keeps pushing me forward, forward, until I
have nowhere to go. The tent ends after the cot. There’s no wall. The fabric of
the tarp is sturdy enough to contain me.
My neck bends and I cry out, folding over on myself in a slow-motion
somersault that ends halfway, not sure what he’s doing. His cock stays in my
pussy as he pushes, and then I’m underneath him. My neck angles awkwardly,
my head looking up from the ground at my bouncing legs above, round his
waist. I’m folded like a backwards C.
Gawain stands over me, pummeling my pussy with mad abandon. From my
angle, I can see his taut ass flex and his balls swing, clapping against my clit
and soft belly.
He has me pile-driven into the cot and fucks me facing the other direction,
lowering himself into me while my spine bends and I scream from pleasure
and pain at this ludicrous angle.
I’m going to break. I’m going to explode and launch my fucking lady-juices
all over him before I do.
“Oh, this is perfect,” Percival says in a raspy purr. His throat sounds raw
from the abuse it took.
When I scream again, darkness falls over my eyes and mouth, muffling me.
I can’t see Gawain pumping my pussy anymore. Percival is over me now,
lowering—
His balls land on my face.
Just like I did to Lancelot last night. Percival sits on my face, rubbing his
heavy cum-filled sack all over me. He cups my tits and squeezes his long cock
between them, giving himself a . . . backwards titjob? I don’t even know what
to call this shit, but I feel the velvety sheen of his cock sliding between my
breasts, all while he teabags me.
Up top, Gawain’s slender fingers probe my asshole. Because why not?
Might as well fill every hole I have.
I’m completely immobile. Coming my brains out. Letting out muffled
moans and screams as they ruthlessly use me for their pleasure. I can’t say the
experience isn’t blissful.
Percival stands and I inhale a ragged breath of air. I’ve lost count of how
many times I’ve climaxed in this position. I can still feel the big one coming.
It’s the way Gawain’s balls slap against my clit that’s going to do it. I’m not
even sure how he so flawlessly put me in this position. As much as my back
hurts from it, I have to imagine his legs are growing tired from that crouched
gorilla pose.
He doesn’t care. He digs his fingers deeper into my ass cheeks, holding me
tight like a fleshlight for him to destroy, while playing with my asshole and
spanking my clit.
From my angle staring up, I watch as Percival lines up behind Gawain and
strokes himself. He squares his legs with a sturdy foundation and says, “It’s
your turn now, dark prince,” before ramming himself deep into Gawain’s ass.
My mouth falls open. I’m getting the best-angle view of this debauchery,
losing myself to the most utter perversion and degeneracy I can imagine.
Gawain lets out a stuttered gasp as Percival fucks him from behind—the
blond knight finally regaining his confidence to switch roles with the dark
knight he’s usually the plaything for.
Their swinging balls clap together. I can see it, and the undersides of their
hard dicks—Percy as he gapes Gawain’s asshole, and Gawain as he widens my
sloppy-wet cunt.
Precum and sweat starts to drip onto me.
Gawain lets out “Fuck me” and throbs harder than ever inside me,
punishing my insides and spreading my walls while Percy punches and flattens
his prostate. Gawain lasts all of three minutes before he’s pulling out with a
quickness, showering ropes of cum over my asshole and crack and the tarp
behind me.
The first warm gush makes my body convulse. I’m falling off a ladder and
trying to balance myself but the whole thing shakes and I fall and crash.
Percival pushes deep into Gawain’s tight rear and unleashes his load. When
he pulls out, a river of cum follows . . . dripping onto my face and drizzling my
wide-open mouth as my orgasm subsides on a silent scream.
Gawain lets my legs go. My back cracks when I unbend and my legs flop
down against the tarp. I choke on Percival’s salty cum. His thick load sputters
past my lips, drooling out the corners of my mouth like a blown volcano.
I blink and my eyes keep rolling. I’m twitching with the aftershocks of
euphoria.
They pant, and Gawain doubles over from the exertion. He turns, examines
Percy’s handiwork drenched over my face, and smiles down at me. “Well, that
went even better than expected, didn’t it, my Ever Whore? Painting you with
our cum has never been so fun and extraordinary.”
I blink twice to let him know I’m still alive.
“Now, what do you say?” he asks, bending down to inspect my sloppy face.
“T-Thank you, sir.” When I try to croak out more words, I choke and
cough.
“Now, now,” Percival murmurs. He strokes my sweaty forehead to get red,
cum-covered curls out of my face. “You’ve done enough for today, little
snoop. No need to speak. Let us take care of you for the rest of the night,
yes?”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 14
Guinevere

I wake early next morning feeling well-rested and invigorated. I mean, holy
shit. There’s a small smile on my face when my eyes crack open, a soft breeze
blowing through the small flap of my personal tent.
Getting dicked down two nights in a row by ravenous knights does
something to your soul. And your mood. It’s hard to be angry or tight or
frustrated when my dopamine button is constantly being smashed.
After feeding and plastering me with their cum last night, Gawain and
Percival doted on me for the rest of the evening. They took me to a nearby
stream and bathed me, kissed on me, fed me berries they found, and made me
feel like I was their entire world.
We’ve come a long way, my knights and I. Even with all the busyness of
constant travel, we’ve made time for each other. We’ve managed a healthy
routine when we’re together, where the biggest decisions are which ludicrous
positions we’re going to tackle this time, and what are we going to eat
afterward.
Despite my promiscuous nighttime activities, we’ve gotten a lot done
during the days. I feel like we’re finally making progress. Up until yesterday, it
had been frustrating getting turned down at every city. Skulking through the
back-alleys and hiding in the shadows gets old fast.
Thanks to Tristan and Iseult, we’re making headway in the army-building
department. We can’t really call these townsfolk “soldiers” quite yet, but it’s
refreshing to know these people believe in us and think we’re doing the right
thing trying to take Arthur’s throne back.
Sometimes it’s just the belief other people have in you that can keep you
going. Simple things like faith and trust go a long way. When things seem bleak
and dismal, that one nod of confidence, or an assured smile, helps carry you
to the next day.
 We have to start stacking the good days. Regimenting, strategizing, making
moves. With Tristan and Iseult going to Hibernia, their numbers—which are
now almost two-hundred strong—will be noticed by scouts of neighboring
kingdoms. They’ll be discovered and known, fast, and who they fight for will
get out.
King Arthur is back in the game. Everyone is about to know it.
“I’m worried about Pengwern,” I tell Arthur when I see him that morning
around the remaining campfire.
Tristan and Iseult have left, taking their brigade with them in the wee hours
of morning. They’ve left a lot of empty casks and drinking mugs behind in the
forest. A few empty tents, too, either broken or unusable after last night’s
festivities. Hoof prints and carriage wheels dig into the dirt and flatten the
grass. In short, it looks like a bomb went off in this small patch of woodland.
“Worried, little one?” Arthur asks. He’s latching his vambraces up his
forearms—a word I learned from Kay, long ago when he gave me a personally
crafted suit of armor.
Crunching twigs has me turning around, as Gawain and Percival leave their
tent to grab some stew from the campfire. Gawain winks with one of his
customary smirks, and Percival smiles broadly, cheeks flushed.
Those two really let me have it last night. Those looks alone make me
shiver, excited thinking about it. Hell, they gave Lance and Arthur a run for
their money from the night before that, which I didn’t think was possible.
I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Gawain and Percy have always had a
bond unlike any of the others—a push-and-pull, give-and-take, light-and-dark
dynamic that’s breathtaking and toe-curling.
Arthur chuckles, which makes me face him, my expression blank. “A little
spacey this morning, aren’t you? Don’t blame you, after the inhuman sounds
coming from Gawain’s tent. Inhuman female sounds.”
His eyes burn a hole through my forehead. I blink rapidly, blushing like a
fool. “Uh—huh—what? What do you mean?”
Arthur kisses my forehead, lightly grabbing me by the back of the neck.
“You don’t have to hide your actions from me, love.” His voice lowers to a
whisper, caressing over the shell of my ear. “I’m just wondering when the time
will come all six of us can partake together.”
My eyes widen. My mouth forms an O. That’s what I’ve been saying! Screw these
tiny huts—let’s get a big-ass circus tent! We can all get stupid hot together. “I’ve been
wondering the same thing, my king.”
He kisses me again, then sighs as he turns around. “Alas, we need to make
as much ground south today as we can before people start talking about our
growing army throughout Logres.”
“Right.” I nod firmly, stuffing down the growing lewd thoughts and
horniness always a feather-trigger away from exploding out of me when I’m
around these guys. “That’s what concerns me about Pengwern. With all the
able-bodied men and women joining us last night, aren’t we leaving the rest of
them undefended? They don’t even have a marshal or any form of law
enforcement.”
“We didn’t take all the able-bodied men and women.”
“Semantics. You know what I mean.”
He scratches his cheek. “Who would attack them?”
“Huh?”
“What would be the purpose of attacking Pengwern? Invaders would gain
no strategic position for attacking the city. It’s a waste of time and resources to
carry out a siege and invasion into an unremarkable city. Besides, the people of
Sorestan aren’t savages and barbarians.”
I lift a brow. “Are you sure about that?”
His mouth opens quickly. Then it closes. His brow furrows in apparent
confusion.
“Pengwern is where I was kidnapped,” I explain. “Snatched away and taken
to Castle Chariot. If I need to remind you.”
His confusion tightens into a flash of anger, I think at hearing the word
“kidnapped” coming from my lips. King Arthur has promised to never let me
out of his sight, and knowing what happened to me at Pengwern is a sore
point. A reminder of his failure.
“Of course you don’t need to remind me, little one,” he grunts, facing the
ground. His body steps alarmingly close to mine. “Never again.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard. Crane my neck to look up at him. I’m hyperaware
of the closeness of us, the heat lapping off his body in waves. “That still
doesn’t answer my question about Pengwern being defenseless. A town of
children and elderly.”
“The six of us can’t stay here and protect Pengwern from a threat that
likely doesn’t even exist, little girl.” His voice is deep and brooding, and I know
when he calls me “little girl” I’m in the danger zone.
 Danger of getting my clothes ripped off, or scolded? Nobody knows. Hell,
he might as well call me his “bad girl” when he gets in these dark moods,
because I know he wants to lash out at me.
Part of me is thrilled with it. Thrilled with toeing the line between annoying
brat and know-it-all who makes a fair point. Pushing Arthur’s buttons, gingerly,
to get a reaction. Does that make me a horrible person, knowing Arthur has
been on pins and needles since our journey started, and I’m still prodding
him? It’s possible.
I also know he loves getting pushback from me. He’s told me as much. It’s
what sets me apart from all the other women of Logres—no other
noblewoman or peasant girl would dare criticize the mighty King Arthur.
I don’t have the same compunction.
And now look at me. The Knights of the Round Table worship me. They
call me their Ever Queen, and I’m the heir-apparent to the Camelot throne.
We just need to freaking get it back.
I haven’t even thought about if I want to be a queen. Or what it means.
How I’ll do. We’ve been moving at such a breakneck speed, I haven’t had the
chance to ponder what I do once we have the Pendragon Circlet on Arthur’s
head.
“It’s not often I see you lost for words,” Arthur says. “Where did you go?”
I inhale sharply. Try to come up with a good response, which isn’t a
complete lie. “Wondering about all the naughty, vile things I’m sure you want
to do to me.”
“Liar.” His nostrils flare with desire.
My innocent expression shifts into an expectant smirk. The smirk feels like
a façade of strength. “I was wondering what it’s going to be like when I
become queen.”
Arthur’s gray eyes darken. “Can’t wait to rule, little one?”
“I just . . . don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.” I bow my head. My faux
haughtiness gives way to something deeper. I don’t know why I’m thinking
about this when there’s no guarantee I ever will rule. Everything is pointing in
the opposite direction, so why should I care so much?
I know, deep down, it’s everything else bothering me. The tangential stuff I
can’t mention, for fear of losing his trust—losing him to the warpath he’s sure
to set himself on once he finds it out.
 He asks if I can’t wait to rule . . . but he doesn’t even know I need to use the Holy
Grail at some point, to end this curse and cycle. He doesn’t understand it might send me
away—that I’ll never see him again.
Arthur doesn’t know he’s fated to fight his own son in a duel to the death. That,
according to Merlin, neither he nor Mordred will be holding the crown when it’s all said and
done.
Arthur doesn’t even know he has a son.
God, it’s so much. The thought of losing this man, and being sucked away
from Logres back to my mundane, modern world, nearly brings me to tears.
It’s when Arthur tilts my chin to look up at him, and drags the pad of his
thumb under my eye, across my cheek, catching an errant tear, that his love for
me shines through the gloomy thoughts haunting me.
I can physically feel the love he’s showering me with, with that simple smile
and look. It’s like the heavens parting, gazing into his beautiful face. His
loving, concerned, resilient expression is enough to stuff down the barrage of
emotions and questions for just a while longer. The full smile from his full lips
makes my doubts vanish like a midday sun burning through Fata Morgana.
“You will make the best queen this world has ever seen, Guinevere.” His
words are a promise, making my eyes burn. “Do you understand? You’ll rule
not as a ruler, but as a friend. As a helper and benefactor. You’ll be a leader in
ways no one has ever succeeded in this world: through kindness. Your concern
for Pengwern shows me that. I am more confident in your abilities than ever,
my love. So do not worry yourself over what may be. Simply concern yourself
with the present. That way, you can hold onto the love that surrounds you right
now. Can you promise me that?”
His confidence and trust in me is too much. With my bottom lip trembling,
I bury my head into his chest and nod, sniffling and whimpering like a baby.
He hugs me tight, his large body folding over mine. A weighty blanket I
never want to release.
“Good. Your men will not let you fail, my queen. We will prop you up
when you feel doubtful. Strengthen you when you feel weak.” He lifts my chin
again, dips his head, and kisses me.
Then he says the most profound part of all, not even understanding what
he’s really saying underneath it, I’m sure. With his shining smile lingering, he
tilts his head and winks. “We still have time to carve out our future together,
my Ever Queen.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 15
Mordred

I returned to Baucillas’ jail cell the night after our first breakthrough talk,
where he finally spoke to me and tried to convince me to give up my quest,
claiming I had already won. To “let Arthur go,” as he put it. That was before
he screeched at me on the way out, about not helping the citizens in my month
of kingship, and falling into the same one-track mind as Arthur before me.
In truth, after reflecting on his aggravating words, he made some fair points
that night. I do have the Pendragon Circlet. I wear it all the time, as proof of
my victory over my uncle, and to lessen the pain and humiliation of my
subsequent defeat at his hands in the northern plains. Luckily, the public
doesn’t know about that defeat, where I lost my two brothers, Gaheris and
Gareth, and, more importantly, had Guinevere snatched away from me.
Damn the hellion demon that descended from the heavens to steal my
victory.
Nevertheless, I went to Baucillas the following night. I told myself it was
because I felt pity for the old miser, being alone in a cell, body broken, mind
spinning as he neared his finals days.
The truth hurt more to admit: That I was just as lonely as I suspected the
physician was. With Aunt Morgan gone most days, and my brothers dead, I
had no one to confide in. No one to seek for advice on leadership and kingly
business.
Not that I suspected the old fucker had any wisdom to share on leadership
or kingly business, but he did work alongside a king for decades, in my
grandfather, King Uther.
The same grandfather I killed to make it easier to get to Arthur. With Uther
around, it wouldn’t have mattered what I did to Arthur. I still wouldn’t be king.
The oldest generation had to go, to pave the way for the next generation—
Arthur’s—and then, finally, mine.
 Still, I found myself returning to the cell the night after that, too. And the
night after that.
At first, I told myself I was simply humoring the old man. Accompanying
him so I’d have someone to talk to. Call it a shared benefit. I convinced myself
if I couldn’t beat Baucillas’ sharp mind with conflict and debate, I would kill
him with kindness and understanding.
At a certain point over the past week, something . . . changed. I suppose I
could call it a changing of perspectives. A mind shift.
With Morgan absent, why not seek outside counsel? She didn’t ever need to
know about it. Perhaps Baucillas could offer me viewpoints and angles I’d
never considered. Viewpoints even Morgan couldn’t understand, simply due to
her vacancy from Camelot for so long, living far up north in her gilded castle.
Baucillas has inhabited Camelot’s court longer than perhaps any man alive,
right? Moseying through its halls, hearing the whispers and gossip from the
noblewomen and courtiers, picking up on things no other man alive might be
privy to.
Essentially, the old doctor is a wealth of knowledge just waiting to be
cracked open. I simply can’t waste the opportunity to pick the man’s brain,
even if he vexes me to no end.
I keep telling myself it will make me a better king. Aunt Morgan will appreciate
my desire to build a rapport with Baucillas once she understands my scheme. She fucking
loves schemes. And then she’ll be proud of me for this sneaky tactic.
Except the tactic isn’t so sneaky anymore. I can’t deny I’m starting to feel a
certain fondness for this hunchbacked, wrinkle-faced old-timer.
Now, I find myself strolling alongside the elderly physician late in the
evening. My hands are tucked behind my back as we walk at a snail’s pace
through the empty, open-aired patch of land in the center of Castle Camelot.
Open walkways and halls line either side of the rectangular-shaped space.
Despite technically being “outside,” the air here is stagnant and stuffy.
I tilt my head up to the bruised sky. The stars are beautiful, at least.
The guards were mortified and positively baffled when I first came up the
steps out of the dungeons with Baucillas beside me a few days ago. Now, they
simply salute and watch as I take him out of his confines and then deposit him
back before night’s end.
I’m even considering giving him a room inside the castle, so at least he’s
comfortable while imprisoned. I’ll have to think hard about that, though,
because it could open me up to all sorts of issues. Namely, making it easier for
him to pass word to other rebels in the city.
At the very least, I need to ensure I keep Baucillas on a tight leash so he
doesn’t squirm out from under my thumb and take the power position. I can’t
let him play me.
Baucillas limps alongside me, walking with the aid of a crutch. Turns out
the torturers didn’t break his legs completely. He just needed sufficient
nutrients in order to carry himself. Once I got him a fair amount of food,
color came back to his cheeks. In a few short days, his skeletal frame has filled
out a bit.
He’s thanked me for my kindness every night since I began taking him for
walks. The exchange is simple: I give him palatable meals and a little exercise
outside of his jail cell each night, and he answers my questions as truthfully
and knowledgeably as he can.
Baucillas knows nothing is free in this harsh life. Especially when he’s my
prisoner. I imagine he’s under no illusions what I’m really after. I’m not his
friend, I’m his captor.
In the center of this dry patch of arid dirt sits a single gnarled, petrified
tree. Its gray bole stands cracked and frayed—a visible reminder and symbol
of Camelot’s devastation under the destructive magic of the Rot. Groves of
these empty tree husks line the borders of Camelot, outside the city in the
King’s Wood. The same dead woodland where I first found Guinevere.
“Why did my uncle never cut this ugly thing down?” I ponder, frowning at
the tree. “It must be a painful reminder of his failures.”
Baucillas chuckles and coughs, his body shaking. “I suppose so, boy. Unlike
most men, I believe Arthur wants to be reminded of his failures. It energizes
him.”
I let out a harrumph, not bothering to take the bait. I know what he’s trying
to say: “Arthur is strong and builds from his mistakes. You don’t.”
I’ve heard it all before. Baucillas can’t resist getting a jab in whenever he has
the opportunity, to tell me how much I’m fucking up and how grand my uncle
was in his short-lived kingship. It’s all bullshit, anyway.
Baucillas surprises me, though, by going in a different direction. “Besides,
Arthur never had the time to care about such frivolities as cutting down a dead
tree. He didn’t have long as king before his rule was under constant threat,
whether from your Avalon Redeemed rebellion or other encroaching kings, or
the arrival of Guinevere.”
Guinevere’s arrival was a threat to his rule? How does that make sense? I don’t pry,
not wanting him to see how deeply I think about my Mistress of the Bridge
every day. How she haunts my dreams, even only knowing her for a short time.
I think about her so I won’t forget what her beautiful face looks like.
Because Avalon knows I will, if I stray from her for too long.
When I glance at Baucillas, he gives me a watery-eyed smile. “It was your
grandfather who should have cut this tree down, if anything. I think his
reasoning for not doing so would be very different than King Arthur’s.”
I raise my brow. “Are you going to make me ask the question, old man?”
He chuckles and takes his trembling arm off his crutch, sweeping his hand
out at the empty clearing of dirt, surrounded on every side by walkways. “This
entire expanse used to be a beautiful garden.”
I kick at the dirt, sending a cloud of it into the air. “A garden? I didn’t know
that.”
He nods. “It belonged to your grandmother, Igraine.” His smile is fond,
distant, reliving past, happier memories. “The garden in the center of Camelot
was Queen Igraine’s favorite part of the castle, because it was the only part she
felt was completely and unequivocally hers.”
My brow furrows. I can’t help feeling a bit choked up thinking about the
grandmother I never knew—dead long before my time.
We begin walking again, slowly shuffling in the dry nighttime heat.
“Everyone knew not to trifle with Igraine’s garden, or else you’d meet the
wrath of her husband, King Uther. And no one, understand, wanted that.”
“My grandfather was a hard man.”
Baucillas tilts his head left and right. “Yes and no. His legacy is as a
peacetime king, ruling over the longest reign of peace Logres has seen in
generations. But it took war to get to peace, and we all know how warlords can
be.”
A smirk dances at the corner of my lips as I keep my eyes down, watching
our feet meander through the dirt. Yes, I do know how warlords can be. Arthur and I
are both cut from that same cloth. We’re both murderers when we need to be.
“What did she grow?” I ask, popping my head up.
“Hmm?”
“In this garden. What did my grandmother Igraine grow?”
 A smile wrinkles his weathered face. “Oh, everything.” His hands start
dancing across the clearing, pointing and gesturing. “Tulips and poppies over
there. If I remember correctly, chrysanthemums, sunflowers, and roses in that
corner. Orchids dotted the areas between berry bushes, with their long stalks
weaving over thick shrubs and tree limbs. Butterflies fluttered through the air
at all hours of the day, drawn to the rainbow blossoms, nectar, and pollen.”
I imagine the area with crystal clarity, teeming with life and brightness and
color. Vivacious and animated, rather than dull and dead, as it stands now.
“You make it sound like Avalon, Baucillas.”
“It was. This quaint area was Queen Igraine’s own personal Avalon. I
believe Arthur, with the dead tree behind us, wanted to preserve that part of
her memory.”
My nostrils flare at mention of Arthur, cutting through the dreamy
happiness like a blade through flesh.
Then another thought comes to me. “Preserve?” I say, the word echoing
something in my mind.
“That’s what I said.”
I give Baucillas a mischievous smile. “Oh, Baucillas, if preservation
interests you . . . I have something to show you.”

† † †

“It’s . . . miraculous.” Baucillas stares into the underground room with

complete stupefaction.
I’ve led him to the subterranean garden Arthur once told me was Igraine’s
real utopia. Her hidden home away from the overland hubbub of court. Not
far from the dungeons where Baucillas is staying, in fact, and directly
underneath the rectangular dead garden above us.
The room looks worse than it did a few days ago. The orchids, which hang
from every wall and corner and grow on every surface like vine trellises, were
fully in bloom with pink and white flowers weeks ago. Now, they’re wilted,
dying fast, turning the whole green room brown, and making it reek with the
smell of decay and rot.
Rot. How appropriate, when this once-glorious and mysterious room is now succumbing
to it.
 I enjoy the expression of wonder on Baucillas’ old face. He almost seems . .
. childlike. As if looking upon the wilted gray-green stalk of an orchid is one
of the finest, most magical things he’s ever seen.
“It looked much better a fortnight ago,” I mutter.
He takes a step toward a flower and lifts its limp tube. “I wonder what
made this area deteriorate so much slower than everything above us. Do you
think it’s simply because it’s underground?”
I shake my head. “This is the only area that remained in bloom while the
Rot infested the rest of Camelot. But it didn’t bloom on its own.”
His eyebrows lift.
“It only began to grow once Guinevere came to this land. With rapidity not
seen in normal plant life. Once she left”—I gesture vaguely—“everything
began dying with the same rapidity.”
Baucillas sucks his cheeks in, his furry white eyebrows bunching together.
He caresses his chin, truly deep in thought. “Absolutely fascinating. Thank you
for showing me this, King Mordred.”
My heart leaps. That’s the first time he’s called me “king,” isn’t it?
A fond expression glints in his rheumy eyes. He startles me by taking my
hand. “I didn’t think it was possible to surprise me anymore. So, thank you, for
doing just that.”
“Any ideas what might cause the strange growth in here?”
He chuckles and shrugs. “I am a physician, boy. A man of medicine and
potions that were once considered witchcraft. But I am no druid or mage. I
daresay you’d have to ask one of them.”
“Ask one of us what?”
My soaring heart hammers home, plummeting to my stomach at the sound
of the voice behind us, coming from the hall.
I spin, though Baucillas doesn’t bother to.
Stammering, I clear my throat and wet my dry lips, standing upright. “A-
Aunt Morgan. You’re back.”
She stands behind us, beautiful and primordial as ever, in a black gown with
darkness caressing her every curve. Her silver lips twist in disgust as her
brilliant eyes fall from me to Baucillas. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
I wince and put a hand on Baucillas’ shoulder. “He needed air. I couldn’t
deny him—”
 “Of course you could. He’s your prisoner, you foolish boy. Not your ally.”
She takes a step forward. The shadows seem to stick to her, moving like a train
behind her low-cut gown. “I leave you to your own devices for a few days, and
this is what you do?”
“You were gone for weeks!” I yell, clenching my teeth. “Coming and going
as you please. I got . . . I got . . .”
“Say it, Mordred.”
“Lonely.” I bow my head.
Morgan scoffs in my face, tilting her chin back. She’s a tall woman, looking
at me eye-level, though I can’t bear to meet her gaze.
“Pitiful,” she snarls.
I agree, it sounds pathetic when I say it out loud.
At that, Baucillas turns around. “Not everyone is so averse to empathy and
tenderness as you, Witch Queen.”
“Silence, old fool.” Her eyes move to my hand on Baucillas’ shoulder. She
stares at it with utter disgust, as if my action of touching the old man is going
to poison my body. “You act like a kindly old man, yet I know better than my
foolish nephew. You are trouble.”
“I thought so, too, at first,” I say, then shake my head. “He’s really—”
“He’s an operative for the rebellion working against you, fucking idiot!”
I wince at her loudness.
When I recoil, her face instantly softens. The pristine, alabaster beauty
smoothes over her cheeks and angry lines. Imploring me with her dangerous
eyes, she says, “I was excited to see you, honey. After days away.” She steps
closer and takes me by the shoulders, forcing me to look into her gaze, to
remove my hand from Baucillas’ shoulder. “It shocked me to see you roaming
the halls of the castle with this traitor, is all, my sweet prince.”
I’m lost in her eyes. I don’t remember what I was going to say, if I was
going to say anything. All I know is I forgive her harshness. Was she even
harsh to begin with? I can’t say.
“King,” Baucillas grunts.
Her eyes whip over my shoulder, narrowing on Baucillas. “What?”
“He’s not your ‘sweet prince’ any longer, Morgan le Fay. He’s Mordred,
King of Camelot. You should know that better than anyone—you put him
here as your puppet.”
 A flash of hatred runs across her features. I see something else there I can’t
quite place.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, yes, dear Baucillas, I’m the great puppet master of
Camelot.” Her sarcasm shifts into a snarl. “Spare me, old buffoon. We’ve
heard it all before. Haven’t we, my sweet?”
I swallow hard, not seeming like myself. “Yes,” I find myself saying, though
the words don’t sound like they’re coming from my body.
“Good.” She squeezes my shoulder, kisses me on the cheek. It’s wet and
cold, and I suppress a shiver. “Guards will come down to bring this one away,
to take him where he belongs. We have business to attend to, Mordred.”
“We do?”
“I’ve an important mission for you, my sweet.”
“What mission?”
“You must go to Leudonia to guarantee King Lot’s alliance with you. We
absolutely will require his army in the coming days. My network tells me he’s
been . . . finicky.”
“Finicky how?”
“Gawain is still his favored son.”
“Gawain is a traitor!” I yell. “In the employ of Arthur, even after Arthur’s
group killed three of our fucking brothers—three of Father’s sons!”
She nods apologetically, sadness crinkling her eyes. “I know, my love.
Which is why you must go, posthaste. Your father has given you the nod at the
Meeting of Kings. You must make certain he is still with us. I believe he is.”
“Leudonia is . . . it will take me many days to reach—”
“Not with my help.” A devious smile spreads across my aunt’s cheeks. She
gestures at the wall behind her, gray and damp from water trickling through
the cracks. “Follow my shadow, my sweet. I have it set to Leudonia. It will
bring you back here, as well, once you’re finished.”
“Now?” I ask, gulping again.
For some reason, I glance over at Baucillas.
When I look into Morgan’s face again, her eyes are storm clouds. She’s
noticed the jerk of my eyes over to the physician, and obviously doesn’t
approve of my “friendship” with the old man.
“Yes, Mordred. Now.” She clicks her tongue, and looks suddenly
uninterested, fussing with her sharp nails. “That is . . . if you want to keep
your crown.”
 “Of course I do.”
“Then go.” She gives me a light push. “Perform your duties, as a king
must.”
I stare into the dark void of the wall behind her. The shadows swirl and
weave together in circular motions, creating what looks like a hazy, fuzzy door
of static rainclouds.
I take a step forward.
“Mordred.”
My eyes veer to Baucillas.
“Thank you,” the old man says with a kind, heartfelt smile. The wrinkles
form deep divots in his face—in an expression I won’t soon forget, because I
haven’t seen it in so long.
Honest kindness.
I miss that.
Then I step into the wall and disappear into darkness.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 16
Guinevere

The next few days are a blur as we make our way south through Sorestan,
skirting the edges of Forest Sauvage.
The gigantic forest that runs through the center of Logres makes me
shudder when I see it. I recall the first time I ever saw a wretchkin—a flesh-
and-blood monster out of a fairytale. I think of saving Iseult from her bandit
slavers, and the slaughter that followed.
Bad things happen in Forest Sauvage.
Then, strangely, a smile comes to my face as fonder thoughts float in: Sir
Lancelot teaching me swordplay, flopping me on my ass over and over again
until I was good enough to fight him; teaching me how to hunt and shoot a
bow; the bond we forged in this heartless, wild place.
The first time we made love, in a cart after he rescued me from Castle
Chariot and Morgan le Fay . . . happened right on a river on the edge of this
forest.
I guess it’s not all bad.
Still, my anxiety skyrockets as we make our way into the forest, heading
south this time, rather than north.
Heading closer to Camelot.
Except we aren’t going to Camelot. No, we’re going to Castle Sauvage, deep
in the heart of Forest Sauvage.
Back then, Lance wanted to bring me to Castle Sauvage. He said it would
be “safe.” Of course, he didn’t know the extent of my hatred for King Ector,
Sir Kay’s father. The snowball of events involving Ector in Camelot might
have triggered this whole fucking war for all I know.
If Ector had not groped me in public, in front of the other kings, I would
not have accidentally spilled wine on King Lac, his creepy buddy. Lac wouldn’t
have slapped me, and Arthur wouldn’t have beheaded him.
 A case could be made Arthur might have gotten the nod from the kings of
Logres that day, and fortified his position as the ruler of Camelot.
Would “Domino” and the Avalon Redeemed have attacked if Arthur had a
firm grip on the kingdom, rather than a flimsy hold? It’s hard to say.
Point being, I’m not excited to run into King Ector again. I can tell Kay
isn’t, either. He’s been quiet as a ghost these past couple days. He’s always
quiet, generally speaking, but this is something more.
I’m riding in the cart with him to my left and Percival on my right. Gawain,
Lancelot, and Arthur are in the other cart behind us.
“Not much longer now,” Percival mutters, eyes flitting through the dense
foliage and underbrush of the forest. The trees are thick here. Everyone’s head
is on a swivel.
According to Arthur, they had their own catastrophic events in Forest
Sauvage, just like me and Lancelot, when they came near this castle searching
for us. He hasn’t gone into too much detail about what happened here, but my
guess is there was lots of death involved.
My heart rate is elevated. Kay’s lips are pursed under his red beard. I swear
I’m seeing more gray in that beard with every passing day.
I put a hand on the burly knight’s knee. He jolts—clearly lost in his
thoughts—and lets out a sigh when I give him a gentle smile. “It’ll be okay,” I
murmur, then chuckle.
Kay pops an eyebrow at me for laughing. Probably thinks I’ve lost the plot.
“Get it?” I say. “Oh. Kay.”
When my smile widens, he gives me an exaggerated eye-roll. “Stop trying to
make me feel better with your cuteness, little lamb.” His voice is thick from
disuse.
Just hearing him talk makes my heart jump to my throat. “Okay, fine. It
wasn’t that funny. Okay.”
He shakes his head.
The wheels of the wagon crunch over brittle leaves and twigs. The horses
sniff and snort. The sounds of the forest take over, filling the silence with
warbling birds and trilling insects. It’s a hot day.
“Want to practice on me, Kay?” I ask a few minutes later.
“Practice?”
I give him an encouraging nod. “What you’re going to say to your father.”
He scoffs with disdain. “No thanks.”
 I bite my lip. “Well, you have to say some—”
“I want few words as possible to pass through my lips, lamb. Just enough to
get him cordial.”
“Then don’t you think Arthur should take the reins on this one? That it’s . .
. too painful?”
“It needs to be me. I’m the heir to Castle Sauvage.”
“Estranged heir. No?”
His shrug makes my whole body move because he’s huge and we’re packed
in so close. “Still the heir. Need to make him realize it. And the error he’s
making.”
Even if I don’t agree with him, at least I have him talking. That’s got to be a
good sign, right? “What do you hope he does if he acknowledges your claim
to his throne?”
“I hope he doesn’t try to kill us. That’s all.” He faces me, tightening his grip
on the reins. I wonder if it’s symbolic. “I must dissuade him from allying with
Mordred. My father commands a formidable army scattered throughout
different posts in this forest. All up and down Logres. More scouts than any
other region, with their eyes pointed in every direction. When anything
happens on this continent, he is the first to find out about it due to his
extensive network.”
I ponder his words in silence.
Percival says, “You just strung together more words than I’ve heard in days,
big man. Good job, snoop.” He shoulders me.
I shoot him a coy smile.
“Yes,” Kay says, facing forward down the thin trail through the woods.
“And I’m going to stop now.”
When the silence falls over us this time, it gives me time to think. “We need
Ector on our side so we can control those scouts, then?” I ask the question to
Percy, since Kay is closed for business.
Percy tucks a strand of golden hair behind his ear so he can see me better.
“That’s the goal, my star. I have faith in Kay. He’ll be able to wrangle the old
curmudgeon.”
“Yes,” I quip, “from one curmudgeon to another.”
Kay grunts, playing into my joke.
Percival and I chuckle.
“He learned from the best, didn’t he?” I ask.
 Percy nods—
Then his mouth firms into a line and his eyes shoot out.
I follow his gaze, clamping my jaw.
Trees and bushes rustle in the distance. There’s a distinct sound emanating
through the woods that wasn’t there before.
Arthur hurries his cart alongside ours. He maneuvers the horses lengthwise,
to block the road. Kay does the same with our cart, creating an overlapping
barrier, and then we hop off our benches.
We stand behind the hulls of the crossed carts, for protection. Swords
come out of their scabbards. I draw my ruby-hilted blade. We’re dead quiet.
Lying in wait as the noises get louder.
Trauma flashes inside me. Kay scoots closer, seeing my body tremble,
giving me a reassuring nod. “Like you said, little lamb, it’ll be . . . Oh. Kay.”
I flare my nostrils, giving him a crazy look.
He smiles.
Oh, now he smiles! Leave it to Sir Kay to pop a grin at the first whiff of death and
battle.
Figures emerge from the trees, about thirty feet away. Their armor glints
from the sunlight speckling through the canopies.
“They’re keeping to the trail,” Kay says in a low voice.
“No daggers thrown from the fucking bushes,” Gawain adds, and I hint a
side story he hasn’t told me about.
My heart races as they draw nearer.
Twenty feet away.
“Halt!” Arthur calls out. “Name yourselves.”
A reedy voice carries on the stagnant wind. “Could ask the same of you,
traveler.”
Arthur glances at us. The look on his face asks if he should tell them the
truth—wondering if we’re about to get into the same bullshit as the last time
he was here.
Lancelot gives him a reassuring nod. Slowly, the others do, too. He looks to
me last. I’m chewing my lip raw. Seeing all the others give him the okay helps
me make up my mind.
I give him a decisive nod.
“King Arthur of Camelot.” His voice is booming, authoritative.
 For a split second, the figures freeze. They glance at one another. I can’t tell
how many there are yet. When they step a little closer, I count at least five.
Maybe more. Enough to give us a problem, if they want.
“You mean Arthur the Vagabond,” says the voice.
My blood boils. I can only imagine how pissed it makes Arthur.
He doesn’t react at all. I can’t read his face.
“And his band of wanderers,” says another voice.
“The once-and-only-once king,” says a third.
They’re goading us. What the fuck, man?
“Don’t take the bait,” Lancelot says.
“Would you say that at sword-length from my face, rather than a stone’s-
throw away?” Arthur bellows.
“Dammit.” Lancelot shakes his head.
“How did that end up for your friends?” Arthur adds.
They’re ten feet away from the first cart now. None of them seem to be
holding bows. I can make out their faces: leather helmets cover their heads.
Chain-studded shirts and leggings. They have weapons drawn, pointed at the
ground.
The front man, who has a huge mustache, twitches a smile. “You sawed
Laurence’s head off like he was a fillet of trout.”
Arthur cocks his head. “Which one was that?”
“One of the brothers,” Gawain says simply.
My eyes dart between the two of them. Playing off murder like it’s nothing.
God, what do these guys fucking get up to when I’m not around? I know the answer to
that. I try not to think too hard about it.
Arthur lifts a hand. “We were ambushed and had to defend ourselves.”
The man’s smile remains. He’s crazy-eyed. “Wouldn’t know, Vagabond
King. You didn’t leave anyone alive.”
“I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“Hold,” says a man next to the apparent leader. He steps forward. His hair
is long and dark, tangled in plaits over his shoulders. “You know the location
of Castle Sauvage, King Arthur. What brings you down here, so close, if not
more bloodshed?”
Arthur squares his shoulders. I think he’s happy someone finally is showing
him the respect he deserves, calling him “King.”
“We came seeking an audience with King Ector. We’d like to make peace.”
 “Little late for that,” the mustachioed man growls.
“That’s not our place to say,” the long-haired, respectful guy answers.
Kay steps forward, past me, past Arthur, to the front of the carts. He
shows his face to the enemies, even as Percival tries to tug him back behind
the relative safety of the carts.
Kay shrugs him off, furrowing his brow. “Rhys, is that you?”
The man with the long hair tilts his head. “I’ll be damned. Kay of Sauvage,
in the flesh.” A small smile tugs on the man’s lips.
“Kay the Traitor, you mean,” Mr. Mustache snorts. “Kay who left our
kingdom to become Arthur’s knight-errant dog in Camelot.”
The man named Rhys scowls at his comrade. “I’ve known this man since
we were the same height and could hardly call ourselves men.”
Rhys is not a tall man. Kay is enormous. I pick up what he’s putting down.
They’re . . . childhood friends?
“How’s your finger doing?” Kay asks, smirking.
Rhys lifts his left hand, wagging the four fingers he has. The pinky is a stub.
“Still missing. Thanks, asshole.”
Kay lets out a deep belly-laugh.
God, I love hearing that sound. It’s so unique—so Kay—and it’s been a
while. We’re still in a precarious position, even with this little reunion. My hand
is sweaty on the handle of my sword. I really don’t want to use this thing.
“So,” Kay says after he’s composed himself and the silence has become
awkward. “Are we going to break bread, or am I going to have to lop off the
little finger on your right hand, too?”
Rhys says to Mr. Mustache, “We don’t have the numbers to take them, even
if we wanted, Albert. Might as well see what he has to say.”
“I don’t like it.” Albert plays with his mustache in contemplation. “I
suppose it’s not our call, like you said.”
Rhys faces us. “After the . . . events of the last time you came through here,
we’ve been ordered to back down. Started traveling with fewer numbers—
smaller groups in more places.”
“Why?” Arthur asks. “Ector isn’t the type to forgive and forget.”
“Guess you’ll have to ask him yourself, sir. King Ector has become quite
the talkative man.”
“Last time we were told he was summering in Leudonia, with King Lot.”
“They’ve become quite friendly,” Rhys says.
 “I’m sure.”
Rhys steps aside in a symbolic gesture, and motions us forward. “Well. Shall
we provide you an escort?”
Gawain whispers loud enough for only us to hear. “Could be another trap
leading us into an ambush.”
“Could be,” Arthur murmurs.
“Rhys isn’t clever enough for that,” Kay says, smiling at his old friend. He
said it loud enough for Rhys to hear, too. “It’s why I like him.”
Rhys barks a laugh. “You never liked me, Kay. You just liked beating on
me.”
Kay shrugs. He doesn’t deny it.
“Come on,” Arthur says in a low voice to us. “Keep your weapons up and
eyes sharp, knights. Let’s go pay good King Ector a visit.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 17
Kay

The road to Castle Sauvage is unimpeded. No trap lies in wait. I’m more
anxious and tense than I’ve felt in a long time, but I’m not scared. Not of my
father. Not anymore.
The same can’t be said of my kinsmen. They’re on edge, ready to lash out
at any lurking shadows that pop out of the trees. I don’t blame them after the
last time we set foot through here.
At a certain point, I know Rhys is being truthful. There is no ambush lying
in wait for us—how could there be, when we arrived unannounced and
unexpectedly? There would be no time to set up an ambush between us
running into Rhys’ group and us being led to the castle.
I trust Rhys. The same can’t be said of Albert, who I trust about as far as I
can throw him. Then again, I could probably throw that mustachioed prick quite far.
As my childhood friend said, the scouts have been mustered into smaller
groups to cover wider sections of Forest Sauvage. Father has always been
overly cautious about invaders and unwanted visitors. His hypervigilance is
likely what has kept him on the throne for so long. I know it isn’t his
demeanor or the love his people feel for him. Father’s always been an iron-fist
type of ruler rather than a loved-by-the-people one.
When the castle comes into sight, its towers poking through the trees of
the clearing ahead, I glance over and see Guinevere is still agitated. The poor
little lamb looks how she did when I first met her: tight, coiled, ready to strike.
I nudge my shoulder against hers, making sure she can feel the
protectiveness of my large body. “Don’t worry, little lamb. Everything will be
fine.”
She bites her beautiful bottom lip, stammering, eyes wide. “I-I know, Kay.
Just a little nervous, is all.” She tries her best to give me a confident smile, but
it looks sickly.
 I give her the warmest smile I can muster—the first one I’ve had since we
stepped foot into this wretched homeland of mine. “A little nerves is good for
you. Keeps you sharp.”
“You want me sharp, Kay?”
“Always and forever.”
We push through the final trees and make our way into the clearing, led by
Rhys and Albert. Their foot soldiers walk behind us, keeping our group
hemmed in.
Two guards stand watch at the portcullis. I take great satisfaction seeing
their eyes go wide when they notice me. They give each other looks, murmur
things I can’t hear, and then Rhys steps forward.
“Sir Kay of Camelot is here to speak with his father, King Ector,” he
announces. “Open the gate.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the guard on the left asks.
The one on the right says, “He’s here with Arthur the Vagabond. The king
said—”
“I know what the king said, fool. I was there when he said it.” Rhys’
frustration flares to life, and I wonder if he isn’t on a razor’s edge, too. He flaps
his hand dismissively at the guards then glares up at the rampart where two
archers stand ready. “You heard me, men. I take full responsibility for Kay’s
actions while he’s in Castle Sauvage. Now open the gate.”
One of the archers looks at the other. Shrugs. “Long as you’re taking the
heat, sir, I don’t give a shit.”
The latticed portcullis begins to rise with a creaky squeal of un-oiled iron.
I can tell before walking in Sauvage has seen better days. With my father’s
absence to Leudonia, and his near-obsession with violence and whoring, it’s no
wonder his soldiers are so lax and unenthusiastic. They have nothing to fight
for.
A voice in the back of my head says, I can give them something to fight for. No
doubt they aren’t thrilled about running off to a war to defend a man’s crown
they’ve never met. A man who seemingly has no concern for them: King
Mordred. Just what is Morgan le Fay or Mordred offering my father to bring him to heel?
It’s a question I’ll—in the words of Rhys—have to ask the man himself.
We step into the courtyard and the soldiers around us scatter, save Albert
and Rhys. The courtyard is muddy and marred by divots. A few soldiers train
off to the side. The whole place smells like shit from the nearby stables,
stuffed in the far corner away from the castle.
The castle itself is squat, boxy, and unimpressive. It’s not a place of
grandeur, but one of war. My father has never had an eye for frivolities, opting
to keep his structure a fortress rather than a place of leisure. Or a home.
Growing up was rough, but I understood the need for practicality over
perception. It makes more sense to have a fortress rather than a palace when
it’s tucked inside a giant fucking forest. Without the scouts of Sauvage
roaming on a near-constant schedule, it would be nearly impossible to
pinpoint invaders coming in. They could literally come from any direction. By
the time they’re in sight of the castle, it’s too late to mobilize any kind of
defense.
Castle Sauvage has always been a kingdom on its heels.
With a sigh, I say, “Welcome to Castle Sauvage, brothers. Not much to look
at.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Albert mutters once we’re alone with him and
Rhys. He runs his fingers through his mustache and starts toward the castle
doors.
I notice Guinevere glancing over at the hay-thatched stables in the corner
of the courtyard. Her hands fidget in front of her belly.
“What’s wrong, lamb?” I follow her eyes.
“I just . . . I recognize this place. From my dreams.”
“Right. Careful saying that out loud.” I chuckle. “You sound like a witch
when you speak of dreams. The soldiers here are pragmatists, not ones for
magic and visions.”
She glances sharply at me, eyes wide, but then takes in my smile and knows
I’m only teasing. Somewhat. Maybe now is not the time for my prodding,
when she’s so taut.
“I think there’s a reason she’s looking over there,” Rhys mutters. “A
woman’s intuition, perhaps.” He comes to stand next to us with his arms
folded over his chest.
My eyes narrow. “What are you talking about, Rhys?”
My old friend lets out a deep breath and cards his four-fingered hand
through his hair. “Come on, might as well show you now. Might not get
another chance.”
Albert says, “Hold now, Rhys, that’s—”
 “Shut your face,” I growl, lifting my palm to the man. “What do you wish
to show me, Rhys?”
“It . . .” He trails off on a croak, clearly not wanting to say too much. “Just
follow me.”
Our group marches through the courtyard, our boots sucking the mud.
When we reach the main barn of the stables, Rhys throws open the big doors.
He pokes his head in and whisper-shouts, “My lady? There’s someone here
you should see.”
I glance over at Guin. Now both our brows are furrowed, concerned. My
heart beats irrationally hard, and I’m not sure why.
A face pokes out of the shadows from one of the sheds next to a horse’s
stall. “Oh?” the voice ekes out. When she comes forward into the light
slanting through the doors, her face goes slack. “Oh . . . my.”
She ducks her dirt-covered face, embarrassed.
Slowly, recognition morphs onto my features. My eyes widen, bigger,
bigger, until they’re saucers in my head. My mouth falls open. “M-Mary?”
Guin gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth in shock. She recognizes her,
too. From our shared dream.
Mary swipes her brown hair out of her face and slowly takes me in, eyes
dewy with tears. There’s a bruise on her cheek, and she’s missing a tooth, yet
she’s strong and resilient when she gives me the most heart-wrenching smile
I’ve ever felt. “You’ve returned, young master.”
Her words nearly break me. A sharp exhale rushes past my lips as I let out
my held breath.
Mary. The kind servant girl my father used to call on when things between
him and Mother went south. Ector would bring her here, to the stables, and
do unspeakable things to her.
I was never forced to watch, but I was forced to hear.
The abuse Mary faced at the hands of my treacherous father informed my
entire childhood and upbringing. The violence Father showed my mother, too,
haunts my dreams. It’s stayed with me, making me the kind of man I am today.
Viciously angry. Quick to explode. A fiery, unquenchable temper. Always
wanting to protect what is mine, because I was never able to when I was a
whelp.
At that last thought, my eyes veer to Guin, and I see her staring in abject
horror at Mary.
 My heart clenches, painful, and I nearly double over.
I force myself to stay upright and rigid, because it only gets worse from
there—
Out of the shadows, following Mary, I hear the scuffling of light footfalls.
Two small heads come bobbing out of the darkness. Two small heads with
beautiful pale faces and striking red hair. Shy, holding onto the hem of Mary’s
tattered dress on either side of her. The two young girls are waist-high and
skinny. They stare up at me with wide-eyed wonder.
A blush falls over Mary’s face as she puts a palm on their heads, ruffling
their hair. “Girls?” she says, still staring at me, still giving me that feeble,
knowing smile. “This is your elder brother.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 18
Kay

My world freezes. Memories—dark and light—rush through me, flooding my

senses. It takes everything to fight back the tears threatening to fall. I clench
my jaw. Gnashing, I hiss, “Brother?”
I’m not sure why I said it. I know what this means, immediately
understanding the implication.
Mary, poor Mary, looks embarrassed. She bites her lip and shrinks. “Well,
half-brother. Isn’t he so big and strapping, girls?”
I’m at a loss for words. Guin, to my right, is appalled and mute, mouth still
frozen open.
“Who—how—” I cut myself off before I accidentally say something
stupid.
“This is Clara and Evelyn.” Mary pats the bright heads of the two girls.
“Say hello to Sir Kay, girls.”
“Hello, Sir Kay,” they drone in unison, in squeaky voices. They’re half-
hidden behind Mary’s dress, gazing up at me in that unapologetic way children
do, as if I’m a monster. They’re unsure what to make of a giant.
Judging by their height, they can’t be more than ten years old. Which is
longer than I’ve been gone from Sauvage.
“Mary, I . . . I wasn’t here,” I croak. I wasn’t here to protect you from my vile
father. And look what’s happened . . .
“Not here,” Mary says, shaking her head adamantly. A fierce, protective
expression flashes across her face. “Not in front of the girls.”
“If you’d like, ma’am, I can see to them,” Guin says, stepping forward,
glancing at me because she knows I need to speak with Mary.
Mary takes a step back, hugging her babies tight against her body. “I don’t
know you,” she hisses, eyes narrowing. “You must be the redheaded whore
Ector keeps talking about.”
 “Mary!” I yell, baring my teeth. When I step forward instinctively, Mary
backpedals. I’m immediately hit with shame and raise my hands in surrender.
“She’s a friend.”
To her credit, Guinevere is not offended in the slightest. She only nods to
Mary with the most pitying expression I’ve ever seen. It hurts to witness.
“Rhys,” Mary says past me, “if you will?”
Rhys walks forward with a small bow. “Yes, ma’am. Come on, little ladies.
Uncle Rhys has some new toys I’ve whittled for you. Like to see?”
“Yes!” the girls squeal. They run off away from the barn, with Rhys holding
their hands.
Mary and I watch them go. She says, with great affection in her voice, “He’s
the only saving grace of this place. The only kind soul.”
“Mary . . .” I don’t know what to say, but my respect for Rhys blooms.
Before I even know what I’m saying, I croak, “Does he love you?”
A quick nod. “And I him.” She breaks out into a small smile. “Even if I am
ten years his senior.” With a snicker, she bumps my shoulder, “And yours,
young master.”
“Please, don’t call me that any longer.”
She scoffs in my face. “Just because you’re two heads taller than me now
doesn’t mean you can tell me what to call you.”
My face grows warm. My heart grows heavy again. Mary stares at me like
I’m her savior, even still, when we both know I’ve let her down. I let it come
to this.
“When did things get so bad?” I ask.
“They were always bad, young master.”
My lips fold in a scowl—not meant for her, but my father. “So much
misery, Mary. So much sadness. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Don’t be. I have two beautiful children. More than most servant
girls can say.”
We both know they didn’t come of your own free will.
“Rhys knows they aren’t his—obviously, look at the hair—yet he treats
them like his own. I’m grateful for that.”
I’m ready to pull my hair out. I try so hard to keep my anger stuffed down.
Still, my voice comes out louder than I intend. “You’re living in a fucking barn,
Mary! Alongside horses!”
 She slaps my arm, thrusts a finger in my chest, shutting me up. “Don’t you
think I know that? Don’t raise your voice at me, little hellion.”
The vicious snarl on her face makes me wince. It seems I’m not the only
one who learned quick anger from my father.
“I apologize.” I bow my head. “I didn’t mean that for you.”
“I know.” She straightens. Lets out a deep breath.
“How did this happen?” I ask in little more than a whisper. “Please. Tell
me. I must know.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. Like she’s so desensitized to the violence and
struggle, she doesn’t care anymore. “After your mother passed and you left,
Ector wanted a new heir. I haven’t given him a son, yet. I stay in the stables
until I do.”
My hands clench hard into fists. I feel the warm stickiness of my own
blood curling down between my fingers. “My father is a madman,” I spit out.
“He must be stopped.”
She laughs in my face—a quick bark that silences my anger again.
“Stopped? Kay, he’s the King of Sauvage. How is a simple servant girl
supposed to stop a king?”

† † †

A “simple servant girl” isn’t supposed to stop a king. This should have never
fallen on Mary to rectify. Before parting ways, she tells me this is where she
belongs. That, despite the treacherous beginnings, she’s glad to have two
beautiful daughters. Their cherubic faces are what keep her going.
Guinevere drapes an arm around my waist as we leave the stables for the
castle, trying to console me in silence.
I hardly feel her over the thumping blood in my ears. I’m numb—even to
my little lamb’s touch. It’s a travesty.
As Albert leads us through the castle, I’m hardly aware of my surroundings.
My focus is red and dangerous. The stone walls of this place still look the
same, still smell the same. The high ceilings and vaunted pillars. The tapestries
with my father’s coat-of-arms draped across every surface.
What my father lacks in aesthetic, he makes up for in self-importance. He
wants everyone to know, all the time, who their leader is. A tyrant.
 The rest of the men-at-arms in this castle must know what’s going on. Yet
they turn a blind eye to the atrocities. They’re likely harassed in a similar way.
I’m sure there’s a reason I’ve seen barely a single female soldier inside these
walls, when they’re quite common in other kingdoms. It must be the soldiers’
way of protection, splitting them into roaming scout troops so they stay far
away from the castle and my father’s despicable eye.
This is the way of the world in Logres. Even outside the Rot and Camelot,
things like this are commonplace. There’s no “curse” in Sauvage to blame for
what goes on here.
Guinevere, and her talk of change and hope, helped me forget about it for
a little while. But it was just a mirage, kept at bay, just out of sight, only so I
could stumble upon it in horrendous fashion on my own. So I could be
reminded of what life is like across the realms, behind the enclosed walls of
the castles and kingdoms.
When I lift my head from the stone-cold floor, I’m standing in front of my
father’s chambers. The familiar oaken door in front of me makes me shudder.
It’s a call to my past, reminding me of being a frightened child, when I only
came up to the doorknob.
It’s so much smaller now. So insignificant.
My group is behind me. All the people in the world I love, mouse-silent,
knowing no words can help me.
Albert sticks his hand out. “Weapon,” he orders. “None are allowed in the
king’s chambers.” His face is a sneer, daring me to argue.
I don’t. I take my axe from my back, hands white-knuckling the haft as I
imagine splitting Albert’s mustache and face in two. Then I hand it over.
He gestures forward. “He was made aware of your arrival while you were
prancing about the stables.”
I look back at my friends. At my Ever Queen. Their eyes are encouraging,
their faces masks of defiance and support. I wonder if they see the scared
child in my eyes, begging to flee this place. I wonder if Arthur regrets taking
me here, only so I could see what has happened with poor Mary and my two
young half-sisters.
I don’t regret it.
It strengthens me.
Flaring my nostrils, I throw the door open.
 † † †

“Ah, the wayward son returns, like a dog with his tail between his legs.”
My father’s words curl through my soul. He’s seated at a table in the
chamber next to his bedroom. Eating a lunch of berries and smoked meat,
speaking around a mouthful of food. Red nectar drips down his chin when he
smiles.
My father has grown old. Even older than when I saw him at the Meeting
of Kings a few months ago. His hair has only a smattering of red mixed in
with the white. His belly protrudes.
He gestures to the seat across from him at the table.
I sit, resisting every urge to stay standing and lash out at him. I desperately
try to shove Mary to the back of my mind, because I know I’m here for a
purpose.
Alliance-building.
Grinding my teeth, I lean forward, hands folding on the table.
“You’ve always been a fool, Kay. You’ve brought my enemy right to my
doorstep. Do you not understand the size of the bounty Mordred has put on
his uncle’s head? I might be able to buy another castle with my winnings.” He
smiles as he takes another bite, ravenously breaking into his chicken with both
hands, crunching the bones apart.
The man is so proud of himself.
“You’re making a mistake backing Mordred, Father.”
He laughs, coughs, and pounds his chest once he’s finished chewing. “A
mistake? That’s what you came all this way to say?” He points out a window, to
his realm. “Even now, my forces descend on this castle to round Arthur up.
You’ve made my job so, so easy, son. But you never were the brightest, were
you? The most impulsive, maybe.”
He shrugs and continues eating, head bowed.
I stand from my chair. It’s all I can do to keep from bouncing off the walls.
Ector glances up from under the ridge of his brow, then returns to his
food, unbothered by my actions. He knows I have no weapon. “Don’t huff
and puff, Kay. It’s unbecoming of a knight. I’ve won. You must accept that.”
He lifts his head briefly and smiles at me.
“Fight for us.” I feel nauseous saying it. “For your son and heir. It’s the
right thing to do.”
 A scowl replaces his faux grin. “My heir died when he became a Knight of
the Round Table.”
“You allowed King Uther to take me to Camelot.”
“Under the pretense it would forge an alliance with the old fucker!” He
slams his fist on the table. Then, just as quickly, the spat of anger is gone from
his face, replaced by an easy, reptilian mien. “It’s no matter. Mordred has
promised what his grandfather couldn’t deliver. Sauvage is more powerful with
King Mordred.”
“He’ll turn on you, like he turned on Arthur.”
I don’t have the words for this. I can hardly see straight. I begin pacing to
the side of the table to contain myself.
My father laughs at me. “That’s your selling point? You must try harder
than that, son. Mordred has the army.”
“He also has the Rot. The curse of Camelot. It will never end under his
watch.”
“Oh, like it ended under Arthur’s? Please.” He scoffs, flapping a hand at
me. He seems very interested in his food, which pisses me off, because I know
he isn’t taking me seriously. This is just a game to him.
He’s not wrong: I have brought all of us into a dangerous, precarious
position.
“We have an army, too. Growing bigger by the day.”
At that, his head tilts. He gives me an impressed pout. “Oh? Good to know.
Mordred will reward me handsomely for that information. Even more
handsomely for bringing his usurped uncle back to him.”
I walk to his right and stand at the window, staring out at the gloomy day.
Down in the courtyard, the people look like ants—training, cutting lumber,
smithing. Doing the chores a castle requires, like good little workers.
I seethe at the sight. How can no one do anything about my father? How can Rhys
let stand what he’s doing to Mary? Does no one have a spine in this place?
“Are you looking at everything that could have been yours?” Ector asks. “If
only you were a better son.”
“I don’t regret going to Camelot. Not if it meant getting away from you.”
He chuckles, and I hear his chair creak as he leans back, finished with his
lavish meal. “Your mother thought she could do the same thing.”
Anger rifles through me—unhinged and sudden. My muscles contract.
 “Oh, did I strike a nerve, Kay? You always were more like her than me.
More emotional.”
“Says the man who was regularly unmanned by his wife, and exploded in
violent tantrums.” I turn around to face him, arms folded over my chest.
Darkness clouds his features. I’ve hit a nerve, just like he hit one with me.
“Who is the emotional one, Father? I don’t regret that single quality of
yours rubbing off on me. It’s had its uses.”
“Of course it has,” he huffs, then leans forward again to inspect the
almost-bare bones on his plate. He picks through them, trying to find
remnants of meat. “Anger always serves a purpose. To most, it makes them
strong.”
But not you. It made you weak, Father.
“What is it, son?” he asks, refusing to look at me. “You wish to be my heir-
apparent again? To steal my crown?”
I say nothing.
He eats a grape hidden under the skeleton of his chicken. “Perhaps if
Arthur had handed over that redheaded whore, I could have made her my
queen. Then you would be a prince at her feet, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that where
you belong, dog? At her feet, at her beck and call, like you were with your
mother? Woof, woof, boy.”
He laughs at his cruel joke.
Inside, my soul fights to regain control. “Don’t speak of Guinevere again.”
My lips barely part to get the words out. “I’m warning you, Father.”
“Oh, more empty threats!” he yells, lifting his head to sneer at me. A
twinkle comes to his gray-green eyes, and he gives me another wicked smirk
before returning to his food.
I know another barb is coming, but that still doesn’t prepare me for it.
He shrugs nonchalantly, clicks his tongue. “Perhaps I would have just made
her my breeding mare and kept her chained to my bedpost—or the stables,
like Mary. Avalon knows I’d be a better option than that headless old bastard,
Lac. The one good thing Arthur did was killing that—”
Before I know what I’m doing, I lunge from the window to where he sits.
The red curtain envelops me completely when he mentions my little lamb in
such a crude, horrible way.
His head jerks up at my sudden movement—
 My hands are there, behind his skull, digging into his hair. He squeals. For
the first time I see abject terror in his eyes as he stares up at me and sees an
expression he doesn’t recognize on his son.
He tries to stand.
I’m far too strong for him, and I simply push him down, squishing his
pudgy neck deeper into his body.
He yells for guards—
As I slam his forehead down against his plate.
It explodes, shards of the plate stabbing into his face and eyes.
“For Mary.”
He lets out a bloodcurdling scream of agony.
I smash his head against the edge of the table this time.
Blood spurts as his skull fractures with a sickening crack.
His scream becomes strangled, gurgling—
“For Mother.”
Another slam.
Again.
Again.
All the years of torture and hate and anguish, coming out in one mindless
moment.
His screams are gone now, replaced by wet, broken mewling.
“For Guinevere.”
The wood of the table splinters when I slam his face into it a final time. His
skull caves, giving way beneath my weight, and I lift my bloody hands.
My father’s head is in a crater of his own blood, surrounded by wood chips
and chicken bones and clay shards and bone fragments and brain matter.
My chest pumps fast and hard. My shoulders lift high as I take in labored
breaths. I stare down at the corpse of my father, but I don’t think What have I
just done?
No, it’s peace and relief I feel. No more torture, Father. No more. No more. You
can disrespect me. You can disrespect the kings and Arthur and Mary and, hell, even
Mother. But don’t you dare disrespect my little lamb, you fucking savage.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 19
Guinevere

When we hear the first crash, and what sounds like clay shattering, everyone
bolts upright.
Albert, standing in front of the door, gives us saucer eyes. His hand goes to
the hilt of his sword.
Lancelot is too fast, pushing past me and Arthur, grabbing Albert’s elbow,
stopping him from drawing his weapon. “I wouldn’t do that, Albert.”
Albert sneers at him.
Then we hear the screams. God are they bone-chilling. My pulse spikes, my
entire body goes rigid. I know it’s not the screams of Kay, because I know his
voice. Even in death, he would never wail like that. The man is too stoic.
Which means . . .
Albert’s voice cracks. “You motherfuckers!”
He shrugs Lancelot off him and pushes the door in, fleeing inside, yelling,
“Guards! Guards! Gu—”
His voice stops.
The rest of us follow him in. When I see the eating room, my world spins
as nausea claws at my throat.
“Oh my fucking God,” I groan.
King Ector’s head is a busted watermelon on the table. Broken bones,
pulpy brain matter seeping over a broken plate, and a whole lot of blood. He’s
unrecognizable.
I want to vomit from the grotesque sight. I fight back the surging bile in
the back of my throat.
Kay stands over him, heaving with deep breaths, staring vacantly at us.
Blood is on his hands, literally, dripping from his fingertips to the floor with
grotesque plop-plop-plops.
 Albert shakes, his sword trembling in his hand as he rounds Kay and goes
to the window. Kay doesn’t even look at him, his eyes staring straight at me,
into my soul.
“Soldiers! Up here immediately!” he screeches out the window.
Guards pound up the stairs and down the hall in seconds. Rhys is the first
one in, sword drawn.
Albert screams and points his sword at Kay. “The king has been
slaughtered! By his own son!”
Kay doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Rhys, surprisingly, seems to loosen. His shoulders sag, his body deflates.
“Shit. Didn’t think you had it in you, Kay.”
Albert wails again. “Have you lost your mind, Rhys?!”
Rhys sheathes his sword. The five soldiers behind him blanch as they look
into the room. They murmur to one another. No one except Albert looks
ready to jump Kay.
Rhys shrugs. “You act like patricide isn’t the most common means of
usurpation in this realm, Albert.” He is way too calm about all this. “Hell,” he adds,
flapping a hand at Ector’s corpse, “our great and lovely king is supporting a
man who killed his own grandfather and deposed his uncle. Was supporting, I
should say. I don’t think good King Ector is going to be walking this one off.”
I want to vomit and laugh at the same time. I’m going into hysterics, and
I’m not sure what can bring me back.
“Usurpa—” Kay grunts, clears his throat, shakes his head. He finally comes
back to the land of the living. “That’s not what this is.”
Rhys shrugs again. “Semantics. We can call it a revenge killing, then.”
Albert screams, “Soldiers, arrest these men and this woman! They must be
held until the rest of our forces arrive in the next few hours.”
“No one move,” Rhys orders.
No one does.
We have King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Percival, and Sir Kay in
the same room. Some of the most feared knights in the realm.
To make the point crystal clear, Lancelot says, “We may not escape this
castle alive . . . but neither will any of you, if it comes to it. I promise you
that.”
I love when he makes promises. He always keeps them—always finding me
when promised, always coming back to me. The latter just takes a little longer
sometimes.
Albert is on the verge of completely losing his shit. So am I, honestly. He
says, “What the fuck are we supposed to do, then?” and looks to Rhys.
Rhys fumbles with his words. He decides to say nothing. The silence drags
for a minute. The blood is still trickling, still plop-plop-plopping.
Arthur, the sole king in the room, takes command. “Clear this room,” he
orders. “I give you my oath we will not desecrate your king. We need a
moment to . . . reflect, Albert. You can gather as many soldiers as you want
outside the door, to wait for us.”
“Reflect?” Albert sneers. “My king lies dead in his own lunch!”
King Arthur takes on the stance of Lancelot, his cool temperament
vanishing for a split second. “It wasn’t a request, sir. Unless you want to end
up like your precious king, you’ll do as I say.”
Two seconds after he’s finished, the footsteps of the soldiers behind Rhys
are receding. I get the feeling they don’t care too much about their king lying
dead in his own lunch. Albert is the only irate one here.
This is what it looks like to be a king without the support of your subjects, I think. A
tyrant whose death only brings relief.
Albert begrudgingly leaves, glancing at Rhys one last time. “I hope you talk
some sense into these bastards. Traitor.”
Rhys frowns. “We’re both men of Sauvage, Albert. I simply recognize a
changing of the guard while you choose to stay ignorant.”
Mr. Mustache slams the door behind him.
Then we’re alone, with Rhys. Our eyes dart, everyone shocked and
flustered.
Rhys says, “Thank you, Kay.”
Kay looks up. Blank expression, like he’s still trying to compute what he’s
just done.
“I couldn’t stand the suffering Mary goes through on a daily basis. Yet I
could never do what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t do it for Mary.”
Rhys nods firmly. “I understand.”
“I did it for her, and my mother, and Guin, and all the other women Ector
has wounded. That man was not my father. He was a monster. I hope his
death brings a new age to Sauvage.”
 “I reckon it will, old friend.” With a long sigh, Rhys faces King Arthur.
“Albert did ask one question that made sense. What the fuck do we do now?
He wasn’t lying when he said soldiers are en route. They were sent for
mobilization the moment you stepped into the courtyard.”
Arthur purses his lips, mulling it over. His eyes rove across our faces. “Why
are you asking me?”
“Sir?”
Arthur nudges his chin to Kay. “Ask your new king.”
Kay’s head whirls, shock stealing the color from his cheeks. Mouth agape,
he stammers, “W-What—no—I . . . I’m no king, my liege. You know that.”
Arthur walks forward and rests a hand on Kay’s shoulder. He’s the only one
of us tall enough to stare eye-to-eye with the massive knight. The look he
gives his foster brother is one of pure affection, his eyes narrowing with a
wistfulness I’ve rarely seen on Arthur. “Whether you like it or not, brother,
you are Ector’s son. That makes you his heir, whether he likes it or not.”
Arthur glances down at the table. “And I doubt Ector has much say in the
matter. So, barring the uprising of a bastard son, that makes you King of
Sauvage. His crown is yours.”
Kay’s face twitches. He’s flaring his nostrils over and over again, breathing
heavily, maybe on the verge of a panic attack. His voice is soft. “Arthur, I am
the bastard son. He gave me to Uther. He disowned me. I have no right—”
“No right?” Arthur growls, squeezing Kay’s shoulder harder. “Don’t speak
to me about ‘right,’ Kay. He disowned you because he could no longer bully,
torment, or control you. That doesn’t make you any less his son by blood. Take
his crown, Kay, and be a better leader than he ever was.”
Arthur speaks vehemently. As he does, the rest of us start to nod—
subconsciously, perhaps.
“His people will never stand for it,” Kay says. “You’ve seen Albert’s
reaction.” His voice is weak now. Thin and unlike Kay. Like he doesn’t even
believe himself.
“Bullshit. Show them a better way!” Arthur slaps Kay’s arm, hard, like Kay
loves to do to him. He grabs the other shoulder, and shakes him. Their eyes
lock, and I can almost feel what’s coming. “They’ll quickly forget their hateful
king if given a better alternative. Cowardice and shying away from duty is not
the way of Sir Kay of Camelot, old friend. Who cares if others rise in his
stead to challenge your legitimacy? Deal with the struggles and battles as they
come. But you can never win a battle you refuse to participate in. You might
think yourself a follower, unqualified, but I’ve always known you as a brother.
My closest confidant. A descendant and deputy of King Uther of Camelot. I
can’t think of a single person more qualified, who absorbed more information
from Uther by virtue of being at his side, than you. My father—no, our father
—would be proud to see you serve as King of Sauvage, old friend. If anyone
deserves a chance at leadership, it’s you, Sir Kay.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I sniffle and look over. The expression on my
knights’ faces is one of absolute brotherhood and acceptance. Agreement with
their king. This is the pep talk we’ve wanted from Arthur for so long. The kind
of monologue to get things moving, lighting a fire under our asses. I can see it
in every steadfast head-nod and clamped jaw muscle of my men. In every
twinkling eye, close to tears as they take in their brother in a new light, and
soak in Arthur’s words like it’s gospel.
These men would die defending each other. They would die defending me,
and I would do the same for them.
This is the fellowship I’ve always wanted in life. Moments like these
challenge us, yet define us.
Kay is the only one here who doubts himself. I can see it on his face. The
longing to take it back—to revert to the way things were. But nothing will ever
be the same again. Not in Sauvage. Perhaps not even for our group.
Wheels start to turn in my mind. Though it’s nothing I want to say aloud,
I’m imagining situations like this . . . across the board. Food for thought for another
time, perhaps.
Kay is quiet for a long while, everyone staring at him. Then he says, “I . . .
need some time. Brothers, friends, Guin. I just . . .” His face is agonized as he
trails off.
My heart plummets at the pain he’s going through. The confusion of it all.
Kay is not a wordy, eloquent man like King Arthur. He doesn’t have the
proper response.
Another shoulder squeeze from Arthur. “Take all the time you need, Kay.”
He winks. “It’s not like there’s an army outside waiting to batter the door
down to murder us or anything.”
Dark chuckles circle through the room.
“I’ll hold them back,” Rhys says, saluting. “You have my word . . .” He
struggles with what to call Kay: brother, friend, ally, lord? Then he salutes
again, directly to Kay, and smiles. “My king.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 20
Guinevere

Rhys manages to defuse the situation. For a little while. As late afternoon
drags into evening, I’ve had no sight of Kay. I’m starting to worry, and so are
the rest of the guys.
After ushering us to a separate wing of the castle, Rhys and Albert peeled
King Ector’s body from the table and carried him down to the courtyard.
Now, when I look out the open aperture of the chamber where we’re located,
I see a throng of soldiers. They pace around, huddle in tight units, sometimes
glance up at the tower where we wait.
Wait for what, exactly? “So . . . are we prisoners?” I ask, turning away from
the window.
Arthur sits on a chair that looks comically small with his large frame. He
lifts his elbows from his knees. “No.”
“We are until Kay makes a decision,” Gawain says. He’s perched against a
wall, foot propped up behind him.
“Did you mean what you said to him?” My eyes implore Arthur. “Do you
think he’d make a good leader?”
“I meant every word,” Arthur says. “With you around, he’s a changed man,
little one. Not the drunk, gambling lowlife who struggles to live a respectable
existence. My father loved him like a son, and I love him like a brother.”
Lancelot says, “The tide will turn against us quickly if he doesn’t make a
decision soon. He must know that. He can’t hide from his duty.”
“We can’t force him to be king if he doesn’t want it,” I say.
“Should have told him that before he killed his father.”
I glare at Lancelot, shaking my head. “I have to go to him.”
Arthur stands. “Then we’re coming with you. Like hell we’re letting you
roam this enemy-infested castle alone.”
 I know better than to argue with him. Still, I say, “I need to talk to him
alone.”
Arthur blinks at me. He dips his chin with a nod. “We’ll stand at the door.”
I swing open the door to our room and two guards step away. “You are
Rhys’ men?” I ask.
“Yes,” one of them says.
“Can you direct me to Sir Kay?”
“Down the hall, ma’am. Mary brought up a tin tub for him to bathe in.” He
points. “We can’t guarantee your safety outside this room.”
“That’s fine. We don’t need any guarantees.”
My knights follow me down the hall. When I come to the room where the
guard pointed, Arthur shoves himself in front of everyone and opens the
door. He pokes his head in, then takes a step inside—
“Excuse me, sir!” It’s Mary’s voice, where I can’t see her.
Arthur stumbles out of the room. “Apologies, ma’am.” His hands are
raised when he comes out into the hall. “All clear,” he says with a wry smirk.
“He’s all yours. We’ll be out here.”
I smile, walk inside, and close the door behind me.
Mary appears from a separate adjoining room. She looks different than she
did outside—younger, spritely, perhaps happy for the first time in ages. Her
eyes are brighter, she’s wearing an actual gown worthy of her, and it fits her
well. She smiles when she sees me. “Apologies for earlier, ma’am. I didn’t mean
to call you—”
“It’s okay, Mary,” I say with a kind smile of my own.
“Life has just been so hard here for so long. Kay has changed all that. And
so quickly.” Her voice is hushed, so only I can hear her. I can tell she’s excited
at the prospect of a new life. “Sadly,” she says, face sinking, “I can do nothing
more for him. I have whelps of my own now, you see. I fear Kay has
outgrown my care.”
I touch her arm and bring her into a hug. “Thank you for everything you’ve
done. You raised a good man.”
She’s shocked at my embrace, taking a moment to wrap her arms around
me. I hear her sniffling in the nook of my shoulder. “You don’t know what
that means to me.”
“Go to your children, Mary.” I bring her to arm’s length. “Hug them. Keep
them close. Then find Rhys and marry him. I think he’s a keeper.”
 She wipes tears from her eyes, curtsies, and beams. “Thank you, Lady
Guinevere. Good luck.” She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I hear light splashing from the other room. “Little lamb, is that your voice I
hear?”
I round the wall into the next room over, and stop to survey the scene. Kay
is seated in a circular tub, steam rising from the surface of his bath. His legs
are bent at the knees. He’s leaning back, soaking up the warmth.
“Had to purge the sins from my skin,” he explains, head tilting to take me
in. “My, don’t you look beautiful tonight?”
I put my hands on my hips. He’s such a huge, muscled man. The sheen of
water glistening off his skin accentuates every dip and bulge of his frame. His
hair hangs in wet strands down the back of the tub. His beard is plastered to
his chin and neck, his chest hair dark and thick and wet.
“I’m dressed exactly the same as last time you saw me,” I say, glancing
down at my tunic and slacks.
“Hmm, are you? Perhaps it’s because you’re fully clothed and I’m nude that
makes you look different.”
“Oh? Are you feeling vulnerable there, squeezed into that big tub?”
“Very vulnerable, little lamb.” His eyes flash with a smirk, yet I know there’s
truth behind his words. It has nothing to do with the bath he’s taking or the
clothes I’m wearing. He averts his gaze when our stare lingers for too long—
becomes too intimate. “I don’t know what to do, Guin.” His eyes go distant,
gazing sightlessly at the ceiling, arms propped leisurely up on the sides of the
tub.
“Don’t think about it, then.”
He glances over. “What?”
I start peeling off my tunic. His eyes widen when I bring my shirt over my
head, baring myself to him. “Think about me. Keep your eyes on me and
don’t look away, Sir Kay.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “I can do that. There’s hardly enough room
for me in here, let alone both of us.”
“That’s fine. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to sit.” My eyes gleam, my lips
curl. “Tight confines have never stopped me before.” I sashay toward him,
gently tugging down my pants by the waistband. Slowly and methodically.
His eyes never waver. His throat sounds dry when he asks, “What are you
doing?”
 “Taking your mind off everything for a while. Can I do that?”
“Gods, yes. Please.”
By the time I get to the tub, my pants are at my ankles and I kick my boots
off. My nipples pebble when his eyes eat up every inch of my body, yet I don’t
feel embarrassed or ashamed. I don’t shrink against his gaze. Like I felt with
Lancelot a few days ago, and Arthur, and Gawain, and Percival . . . a new
Guinevere has stepped into my skin.
This new woman is one I love exploring. By the desperate neediness and
desire on Kay’s face, I can tell he’s having a great time exploring her, too.
If I’m going to become the Ever Queen to these men, I need to keep them
in check. Need to show them my power over them, rather than simply
allowing them to possess and dominate me whenever they feel like it.
I mean, I can do that, too—and I love being putty in their hands—but I
need to be able to possess and own them, for my own sake. Otherwise they’ll
eat me alive.
I dip a foot into the tub. Let out a small hiss at the heat of it. Kay watches
me, eyes roaming up my legs, to my milky thighs, to the juncture between
them. He licks his lips. So far, he’s been a good boy and done exactly as I said
—kept his eyes on me the entire time.
He reaches out and runs a hand up my calf, to the ticklish spot behind my
knee, and then up my thigh, where his fingers dig into my flesh.
I step in with the other foot, standing over him, his face eye-level with my
core. His cock throbs, jutting up from the surface of the water between his
legs. “Hmm,” I murmur, tapping my chin. “I think I’ve found the perfect
seat.”
He nods wordlessly, like a grateful dog.
I slowly lower myself, gripping the sides of the tub so I don’t lose my
balance. His hands fall on my knuckles, keeping me sturdy. I let out an “Ahh”
of content as I submerge myself to my hips, guiding myself down.
When I feel the fat head of his cock kissing my entrance, I lean forward,
kiss him, and his hands fall to my hips. I lower, slowly, sinking a few inches
down the shaft of his thick length. He lets out a grunt in my ear—
And I plant my ass down completely, sheathing him deep, deep inside me.
Euphoria swims through me like fireworks exploding. I blink through the
sensation and wrap my arms around his neck, tugging close against him. His
breath is warm against my cheek. “There,” I say, “that’s better. Isn’t it?”
 “So much better, little lamb. Thank you for being here.”
“I was worried you wouldn’t want to see me.”
“I only want to see you. Always you.”
I grind my hips against him. His cock pulsates and spreads my walls. The
water splashes around us. He wasn’t wrong: This small tub hardly fits such a
huge man, and adding a second person side-by-side is simply impossible. This
was the only way to make it work, and I couldn’t have asked for a better seat.
Our lips slant together and we meld into a kiss as the warmth of the water
soaks our skin. I gently ride Kay, my big, confused, heartbroken knight, and
eat up his grunts and groans. I give him moans of my own, light and soft in
his mouth. He swallows my voice, tongue dancing with mine.
We pull back, and my hands fall to his chest, to roam through that forest of
dark red hair.
“For the first time in a long time, I’m scared, lamb.”
I put a finger against his lips. “Shh, love. Not now. Just look into my eyes.
Let me fuck your fear away, so you don’t have to feel anymore. You’ve felt
enough today, Kay. Now, just give in to me. Listen to my voice and my body.”
He nods dumbly, blinking, and begins to buck his hips.
The splashing of the water gets louder, cresting to the sides of the tub and
dipping over onto the hard floor.
I chuckle and slam my ass down, thinking, Two can play at that game, you big
brute.
This isn’t like the other times with Kay. This isn’t him trying to break me,
or me trying to resist his efforts. This is slow, powerful, profound—tender,
when I never thought Kay would be capable of such a thing.
This isn’t fucking. It’s lovemaking. And for once, lovemaking feels right.
I rub my body against his belly, begging for friction on my clit. His hand
dips beneath the surface of the water. A moment later he’s playing with me,
running swirls over my clit while he fills me.
My nails bite into the muscles of his shoulders. He laughs at the near-pain,
hugs my body against his so my tits are flush against his hard chest, nipples
rubbing over him.
All the while, his thrusting from below gets faster, more urgent. We’re
making a mess of the room, splashing water over the edges of the tub, wetting
the floor around us.
 “You’re so perfect,” he whispers in my ear. “My delicious, perfect little
lamb.”
I moan softly in his ear. His words do something to me, and I ride faster.
My knees tilt inward, framing his chest, to give me better leverage.
Fucking Kay like this brings out a new side of me. A side I’m not even
familiar with—unconcerned with breaking or falling prey to my desires. This is
for him. So he can forget for a little while.
“Oh God,” I gasp against his cheek. I’m bouncing now, and he’s leaning
further back to recline as much as he can in this curved tub, to plank himself
and give me a landing spot when the waves crash through me. “Oh God, Kay.”
He slaps my clit underwater. A jagged lightning bolt runs through my body.
My eyes flutter, and he keeps furiously caressing.
We were making love, but now we’re fucking.
Kay dips his head and takes my breast in his mouth. He swirls his tongue
around my peaked nipple, nibbling every so often to give me that jolt of
electricity.
The erogenous zone, mixed with his words and his merciless hand
movements, are going to make me come. The pressure builds, louder, pitter-
pattering close to the surface before diving deep between my legs.
“Are you going to come for me like a good girl?” he asks, voice thick with
need as it ghosts over my hard nipple.
“Oh fu—yes! Fuck yes!”
I grind hard, one last time, shoving my palms against his belly. I slam my
ass down and tremble.
“Come all over my thick cock, little lamb. I want to feel you pulsing and
losing your mind.”
I let out a deep drawl. My breath hitches as I unravel. My pussy clamps
down on his cock and he growls, throbbing against my walls.
He’s barely out of me two seconds later before ropes of cum shoot from
his cock, spurting between our bodies. His cum floats in the water.
I look down while regaining control of my convulsing body. “We’re gonna
need another tub,” I laugh, watching his cum swim to the surface. It would be
gross if this moment wasn’t so perfect.
I lean forward, enveloping his mouth in a sloppy kiss. Our tongues mingle.
He rubs lazy circles over the dimples of my back as I arch. When I pull back,
we’re smiling—
 I freeze at the sound of light scuffling coming from the other side of the
wall. I jerk my head toward the sound—can’t see past the blind opening of
this room—and when I glance back at Kay, his brow is furrowed in
consternation.
“Arthur?” I croak. “Is that you?”
My heart sinks when the footsteps continue, unaccompanied by a voice.
A figure in black rounds the corner from an open window behind him. A
dagger glints at his side. A big mustache spreads across his face.
Albert hisses, “You and your whore should have never come here, Kay the
Bastard.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 21
Guinevere

In seconds, the mustachioed knight is upon us.

Kay rises to his feet as Albert descends. I’m still on his thighs, so he lifts
both of us out of the water at the same time.
“Behind me, lamb!” he growls. He shows Albert his back, curling over to
protect me like a giant bear, while half-tossing me out of the tub.
I land on wet, slippery stone, my legs boneless and spent. I slide to the
floor, crunching my tailbone with a wince. I yell, “Kay!” just as Albert strikes.
Kay roars, his features grimacing in pain, facing me as blood drips into the
bath, mingling with the water and cum.
Albert pulls his dagger out of Kay’s side, screeching as he goes in for
another stab—
Kay swings his elbow back and makes brutal, bone-crunching contact.
Albert’s head snaps back. He stumbles, stunned, barely able to stay upright.
My knight lunges out of the bath. Albert clicks into reality, his eyes bulging
when he realizes he didn’t strike Kay with a killing blow.
He had one chance. Now his face pales as Kay towers over him—naked as
the day he was born, flexing every huge, overdeveloped muscle on his body.
That’s when I see the switch flip on Albert’s face: A moment of
recognition that says, “I fucked up.”
Oh, God, did he fuck up.
Kay waylays into him, punching and clawing like an animal.
Albert screams and stabs blindly, managing to slice across Kay’s forearm.
More blood spurts from the wound, but Kay is lost in battle-lust. Albert has
never seen this expression before on Sir Kay, but I have. The berserker
bellows and clutches Albert by the collar, hoisting him off his feet. Our
would-be assassin’s dagger goes clanking to the ground.
 On the other side of the wall, the door bursts open, slamming on its
hinges. Arthur’s voice bellows in concern and rage: “Guinevere!”
“In here!” I scream, slipping upright to my feet. Everything is happening so
fast, yet it feels like slow motion.
Kay smashes Albert against the wall. The man’s skull bashes with a
sickening thud, leaving blood in its wake.
“Kay!” I cry out.
Arthur’s words ring out in my mind: “Show them a better way. Be a better leader
than he ever was.” I know this crazy-eyed expression on Kay. I can sense it in the
way he moves, skulking, slightly hunched like a monster, every muscle
brimming with potency.
“Wait!” I rush around the tub.
Arthur flies in with Excalibur drawn.
Kay slams Albert’s head again. The man’s eyes roll aimlessly. “Me and my
whore are right where we belong, you spineless fucking coward,” he growls in
Albert’s ear, spitting Albert’s words back in his face.
He’s going to do to this man exactly what he did to Ector if no one stops
him. He shouldn’t have barged in here and threatened his little lamb.
When I yell, “Arthur, do something!” the king sheathes Excalibur and
comes up behind his seneschal. He’s the only one big enough to bear hug the
barbarian and wrench him off Albert, his arms looping Kay’s to get him in a
sleeper hold.
Kay’s hands stay glued to Albert’s collar, and it isn’t until Arthur whispers
something in Kay’s ear that the redheaded knight snaps to. He blinks wildly,
yelling, “Lamb! Lamb?! Are you o—”
Arthur twists them around so Kay can see me.
“I—I’m oh. Kay!”
The stupid little joke makes Kay’s brow furrow. Understanding dawns on
his face, and I let out a ragged, strangled breath.
Albert is a puddle at Kay’s feet, groggily mewling as Kay stands over him.
I throw on my tunic and join them.
Lancelot barrels in with his swords drawn. “Gawain and Percival have the
door. What . . . what happened here?” He takes in the scene, eyes falling on
Albert’s crumpled body.
Rhys comes in next. He looks down at his fallen comrade with disgust.
“Oh, Albert. You fucking idiot.”
 “Motherfucker came in here trying to assassinate me and my woman,” Kay
growls to Rhys. He pushes his old friend hard in the chest. “What are you
going to do about this, Rhys?”
Rhys is shocked, unsure what to do. “It’s your call, Kay. I can’t make the
decision for you.”
I put a hand on Kay’s shoulder. The boiling rage simmers, receding beneath
the surface. He presses his body against mine, hugging me tight. Not letting
go.
In my ear, he whispers, “I should string him up for what he’s done. Draw
and quarter him, make an example of the wretch and send a message to the
rest.”
I understand the sentiment. In any other circumstance, this would be a
moot point because Albert would already be dead. But there’s a reason he’s
not, and it’s not luck.
Kay has recognized the same thing I did earlier—heard the same words in
his mind Arthur painstakingly said for him.
“You aren’t going to, though, are you?” I whisper, kissing the side of his
neck.
His grunt is brooding and pained.
“This is your opportunity, Kay. To do what your father could never do. To
show the people how different you are than the tyrant.”
“He tried to kill us!”
“I know. But look at it from his point—”
“I refuse to entertain such a—”
“He was fighting for what he believes in. With Ector’s death, his whole
world has been tilted upside down. His despicable, hate-filled world. He has
his reasons.”
Kay takes me to arm’s length and frowns. “You’re too caring and good for
this world, little lamb. Even to a man who would gladly slit your throat while
you sleep.”
I purse my lips. “We have done worse, Kay. Just . . . consider it. Please?”
Kay flares his nostrils. Even if I’m right, that doesn’t mean he’ll take my
advice. If Kay is anything, it’s a stubborn son of a bitch.
He spins on Rhys. “Shackle him and take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide
in the morning what will be done with the traitor.”
 Rhys salutes. “Yes . . . sire.” He sounds at odds calling his childhood friend
that. I have to imagine Kay knows exactly how that feels: He had to do the
same thing with Arthur, who was not his king when they were younger. Just
his brother.
I take a huge gulp of air and glance down at myself, because my body feels
oddly warm. I gasp when I notice the giant splotch of blood circling the
abdomen of my tunic. My mouth falls open and cold fear chills me as I look
over and see a river of red seeping out of Kay, right where his body pressed
against mine when we hugged.
“Oh fuck,” I croak.
“What’s wrong, lamb?”
I point at him.
Kay snorts, “It’s nothing,” and waves a hand—
Then stumbles when he takes a step.
Arthur flies to him, bracing his arm under the staggering knight.
“Ah. Fuck, indeed,” Kay echoes, and then his big body topples against
Arthur.

† † †

Kay lost a lot of blood, but he’ll live.

I thank the gods and Avalon and the spirits with every bone in my body.
While Percival and Arthur work on him, I pace the room with my hands
folded in prayer. I’m not even sure what I’m praying to.
It’s Lancelot who stops me with a hand on my elbow, and my head whips
up from the ground. The knight gives me a crooked smile. “You’re going to
make divots in the floorboards, fireheart. Kay will live. He’s tough like stone.”
Arthur and Percy get him patched up. They say Kay needs rest. The wound
on his arm is superficial, but the one in his side is a bit more concerning. They
gauze him, and Arthur says, “He’ll be bitching in the morning, and we might
need to take our travels slowly for the next week.”
Can we afford to do that?
Gawain voices my concern. “He won’t want us to slow down on his behalf.
He can rest inside a cart. Like cattle.”
I scowl at the wicked knight, and he simply shrugs.
 I sleep next to Kay the entire night, letting him sprawl out over me as he
groans in his sleep. He has a fever, and I barely get a wink of shuteye.
In the morning, his fever has broken. I let out another prayer of relief,
knowing he’s probably in the clear. Although who knows what might happen if there’s
internal bleeding. God, times like this, I miss modern medicine. It’s not the first time
I’ve thought that since coming to Logres.
Sure enough, Kay grumbles in the morning. He stops soon enough. When
he sits up in bed at midday, I’m on a chair next to him.
“You saved us last night,” I say.
He winces as he tries to stretch and can’t do it. The bandage is wrapped
tight around his lower abdomen. “Should’ve killed him.”
“Having second thoughts?” I ask.
“No.” He sounds morose when he spits the word out.
“Just be happy we’re both alive. Please?”
He looks up at me with a deep frown. “Fine.”
“Am I going to get more than one-syllable answers from you today?” I ask,
smirking.
He reclines. “You’re heartless, lamb. I’ve been stabbed.”
“Twice.”
His pouty frown breaks into a smile.
“What are you scheming behind that thick beard of yours?”
“Get Rhys. Tell him I want the soldiers rounded up in the courtyard.”
My heart stutters a beat. “Is it, uh, good news you want to relay to them?
Please don’t do anything insane.”
“Hush, hush, Guin. It will be fine.” He tries to stand and can’t. “Fucking
hell. Just get Rhys. Please.”

† † †

Two hours later, Kay stands on an outdoor balcony on the second level of the
castle, holding himself up by leaning on the banister. He peers down into the
sea of faces staring up at him. Half of them glare with suspicion, the other
half hang off his every breath.
Kay’s mouth twitches, trying to play off how wounded he is. Obviously the
macho man doesn’t want to appear weak to the soldiers. I’m standing behind
him, as well as my other knights.
 He looks over his shoulder at us, face determined and expectant—waiting
for me or Arthur to give him a nod.
I do the honors.
Then he faces the crowd and clears his throat. “Soldiers of Sauvage, I have
decided to accept the crown. It’s a great honor to be called your king. To try
and succeed where my father failed.” His voice is raspy and low, yet it carries
on the wind. He’s not used to these sorts of speeches.
I worry what he might say. My leg bounces with anticipation and I can’t
stop chewing my lip raw.
At his first announcement, murmurs rise from the soldiers gathered below.
There has to be at least a hundred of them—a fraction of Sauvage’s entire
military.
“I plan to rule differently than my father, King Ector. He allowed this great
castle—my home of so many years—to fall into disrepair. He allowed his
gluttonous and sinful ways to seep into the bones of this place. I will not be
following in his footsteps.
“First, I plan to set a regent in charge while I am away, because I am in no
position to lounge on a chair with the current state of affairs across Logres.
That regent is someone you will recognize and appreciate.” Kay motions off
to the side, as if this was preplanned, and my eyes swivel to follow his hand.
Mary walks out of the barn, dressed like a goddess in a bright red gown,
with her two daughters beside her.
“Mary is of pure Sauvage stock. As pure as they make them. She will be
regent of this castle while I am away.”
There’s some outrage and blustering from the soldiers. Kay cuts them off
before it can become too distracting. “Who will protect her rule?”
Rhys steps forward from the crowd. “I will, my king. It will be my honor to
guarantee Lady Mary’s safety.”
“Good, Sir Rhys. Remember she is no servant girl, but of noble blood. My
father’s blood runs through her daughters’ veins, after all.”
Rhys bows and salutes. “It does, sire.” He steps back, melding into the
crowd.
“Lady Mary knows each of you. Let her journey not be forgotten—from
servant girl to queen-regent. She embodies the best ideals Sauvage has to offer.
I trust no one more than her. Anyone who disagrees, say so now.”
At Kay’s direct challenge, no one pipes up.
 I’m surprised, because I thought someone would have something to say,
probably about a woman ruling, or a servant girl. This is a world ruled by
misogyny, after all.
When I think more on it, I believe I understand. If Rhys had been
proclaimed the regent-king, it might have presented problems—people in
Albert’s camp would have objected, because he’s just another soldier. It would
look like Kay is playing favorites.
But Mary? Who could possibly hate a woman who has gone through so
much pain and grief in her life, yet remains the very picture of defiance and
resilience? A kind, loving soul, who also happens to watch over King Ector’s
bloodline? A woman whose suffering has been witnessed firsthand, for years,
by the soldiers in this fortress?
Kay is genius to entrust Mary with the kingdom while we’re away.
“Where will you go?” a voice asks from the crowd.
“To fight for Camelot, sir,” Kay answers with a nod, and then coughs and
clears his throat. “My second home. I aim to break the horrible Rot of that
land with King Arthur and Lady Guinevere, in the hopes we can keep it from
spreading to places like Sauvage, Sorestan, and beyond. I will not ask any of
you to join me—the time of fighting unwanted battles, at the behest of my
father, is gone.”
“Can we go with you, though?”
Kay smiles. “I would enjoy nothing more than to have you by my side, to
call you brothers- and sisters-in-arms.”
A smattering of cheers drifts up from the crowd.
I like how Kay isn’t pushing too hard with the soldiers. He’s planting the
seed, and that’s it. He really is trying to differentiate himself from his father—
making a woman a ruler, thus allowing the female soldiers to show their faces
without fear of attack; not demanding respect, but asking for it while showing it
in kind.
Kay lifts a hand, asking the soldiers to lower their volume. I smile at the
gesture. He’s got this leadership thing in the bag. Arthur was right.
“I have one other decree to mark my first day as King of Sauvage.” The
voices hush, and he continues. “Last night, as I’m sure the stories have
circulated by now, a disgruntled soldier of Sauvage attacked and tried to kill
me and Lady Guinevere. Albert is known to you all. To some of you, he’s
undoubtedly a comrade and ally. He was a loyal subject to my father, and felt
Ector’s end came unjustly.”
Boos and shouts from the audience. Some heckling, too. I’m not sure if the
booing and hollering is from people who agree with Albert, or hate him.
Kay says, “In my kingdom, he is allowed to think that. I can only wish for
the same sense of loyalty and duty from my subjects.” He glances over at me
to the side. “So, I will not torture, maim, or execute that man, as my father
would have done over an assassination attempt. No, as my first act as king, I
will grant Sir Albert . . . clemency.”
I know how hard it is for him to say when he grunts out the last word. I’m
shocked, actually, he hasn’t decided to let Albert rot in jail forever, or exiled
him.
I wonder if letting him roam free is such a good idea—if I’ve made a
mistake suggesting it—since we know he’ll pose a threat to Rhys and Mary
once we’re gone.
I’m even more shocked when the shouts bubble up in unison—an army of
chants, starting as a low din and a few soldiers, before spreading across the
entire courtyard.
My surprise breaks into a smile. With that single decree, Kay has cemented
himself as the ruler of Sauvage. It couldn’t be clearer.
Albert wanted to demean Kay by calling him Kay the Bastard? Well, my
giant redheaded knight has won, because the chant I hear says it all:
“Long live Kay the Benevolent! Long live Kay the Benevolent!”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 22
Mordred

I step out of the shadow onto firm, cold stone. The world goes from black to
gray. My legs tremble when I step forward, and freeze, my eyes going dizzy.
On a sharp inhale, my stomach lurches. Saliva fills my mouth. I try to take
another step down the hall—
Bile shoots up my throat and I double over and retch on the floor. Panting,
I wipe my mouth with the back of my forearm as a headache thuds behind my
temples.
I never want to travel through Aunt Morgan’s shadow tunnels again. Her
world is pitch dark, treacherous, terrifying. It’s like floating in limbo, yet with
something pulling me in every direction. An invisible force I can only explain
as magic—energy driving me every which way.
In that magical mode of transportation, I have no control of my own body.
The sense of helplessness and weightlessness overwhelms and frightens. The
energy sucks me through the dark hole and, in a matter of minutes, I’m where
I need to be, rather than the days of travel it would usually take.
It’s unnatural.
The clanking of armor alerts me to a guard rounding the corner of the hall.
When he turns and sees me doubled over, he stops with a baffled sound.
“King Mordred! You’ve returned, sire.” He hurries to me and grabs under my
arm, trying to help me. “Here, sire, let me help—”
“I’m fine, soldier.” I push him away, waving him off. “Dammit, I’m fine!” I
say when he persists. If he moves me too fast, I’ll vomit again.
He steps away. “Apologies. Welcome back to Camelot, my liege.” He salutes
and goes on his way down the hall.
I’ve been gone from my kingdom for half a fortnight. I hope nothing has
gone awry in my absence, with my aunt in charge. I know she has a firm
handle on things, because people are more terrified of her than they are me.
 Standing to my full height, I rub my belly to make sure I’m not going to
spew again. Then I make my way to the throne room. The more I walk, the
faster my headache subsides. It was like this on the other end, too—stepping
into my father’s hillfort, Castle Rock, in Leudonia.
The throne room is empty save a pair of guards watching the doors. The
Pendragon Circlet sits on the simple monolithic chair, glinting from sunlight
slashing through the windows.
I take a step past the door. Pause. Shrug. March into the room, take the
crown, and rest it on my head. I always feel more powerful when I’m wearing
my uncle’s crown. I mean my crown, of course. It’s not Arthur’s. It’s mine now. I need to
stop thinking like that.
“So he returns.”
I jolt and spin to find Aunt Morgan standing next to the guards at the door.
Her hands are affixed to her hips, like a scolding mother.
I resist rolling my eyes. “You have to stop sneaking up on people like that,
Aunt Morgan.”
Her silver-hued lips curl into a smile. “Can you blame a woman for being
excited to see her dear nephew again?”
I march to her, muttering, “I’ve only been gone a week.”
She loops her arm in mine and leads me down the hall, out of the throne
room, our pace meandering. After a minute of silence while we walk, I feel her
gaze on me.
“Yes?” I say. “Ask your questions.” Glancing over, I see an almost-smirk
near her lips.
“Returned only five minutes and you already fasten the crown to your
head.”
Her words irk me. There’s always subtext to what she says. The subtext is
not usually kind. “Yes, well, it’s mine.”
Her chuckle is airy—a definite departure from her usual abrasive cackle.
She seems . . . happy? It’s a strange emotion for Morgan le Fay to show, and it
puts me on my guard.
“It suits you,” she says with a small nod, tightening her arm against mine.
“My sweet king.”
I smile, staring ahead as we pass a chambermaid who curtsies to us, and a
set of guards who salute. I nod to them. “You’ve taken Baucillas’ advice, I
see.”
 Her body tautens. The lightness in her face evaporates like morning dew,
chased by a scowl. “What ever do you mean?”
“You called me ‘sweet king’ rather than ‘sweet prince.’”
She lets out a light scoff. We continue on in silence for another minute,
coming to a staircase that leads down to the first level. “How did it go in
Leudonia, darling?”
Already to business. I was enjoying this rare moment of leisure with my aunt. “Could
have gone better.”
She pauses at the top of the stairs, holding me back from our descent.
“What does that mean?”
I’m on the step below her, making her taller than me as she peers down her
nose in a disapproving way. “My father is stubborn as ever. I believe we still
have him, though.”
“You believe?”
“He gave me assurances of our alliance.” Frustration builds inside me. Why
does she think she can talk to me this way, questioning the way I say things?
She clearly does not know her place here.
“What about Queen Anna? What of my sister?”
I slide my gaze past Morgan. “Mother is reluctant to wage war against her
brother and son, Arthur and Gaw—”
“Yes, dear, I know who Anna’s family is. They’re my brother and nephew,
too.” She’s flustered, clearly unhappy with the news.
I knew she would be. I hoped to stall long enough to plan my debriefing. “I
believe my father takes a fair share of advice from his queen.”
Morgan’s face twists with disgust. “King Lot has grown feeble then, letting
a woman dictate his decisions.” When I stare hard, giving her an expectant
look, she doesn’t catch on. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
I let out a deep breath. “Aunt Morgan . . . I take guidance from a woman,
too. You.”
She flaps an annoyed hand at me. “That’s different, dear boy. You are
young and inexperienced. Lot has been king for decades, and should not need
that hussy leading him along by the nose.”
“That hussy, Aunt Morgan? Besides being my mother you’re talking about,
she’s also your sister. You shouldn’t speak about her like that.”
Morgan flares her nostrils. When she gets agitated like this, her
otherworldly beauty doesn’t seem so transcendent. She sounds jealous, hateful,
which reduces her to a mere mortal like the rest of us. It’s strangely satisfying
to see.
Plus, I never knew Morgan to disparage Anna before. As a child, my
mother took me to see Morgan at least one season a year, for extended stays in
Gorre. With Morgan’s castle in Gorre relatively near Castle Rock in Leudonia,
the trek wasn’t too exhausting. It allowed me to build a rapport and kinship
with my aunt. And now this?
Not to be out-jabbed, she snipes, “How I speak about my family is of no
concern to you, Mordred. Mind yourself. Does my dear sister forget you are
her son, too? Not just the golden child, Gawain?”
“I don’t believe Anna wants to attack anyone—Arthur, Gawain, or me. She
would rather stay neutral.”
“Neutrality means death in the coming conflict. Mark my words. It’s simply
not possible, which is why we’ve amassed so many other kings in our retinue
of allies.”
My eyes widen. Morgan speaks in such absolutes. Sometimes it’s alarming.
This warmongering side of her is new to me, and I don’t think I like it. Yes,
we’ve been on the path to retrieve the Pendragon Circlet and oust King Arthur
for months now, if not building on years of planning on Morgan’s part. But
she seems to be taking this even further than I realized.
“Without Leudonia’s large army, we might falter. That simply cannot be.
You’ve failed us, Mordred. Again.”
I bristle at her careless dismissal. “We might falter against whom, Aunt
Morgan? Arthur has no army to speak of. He’s traveling the countryside,
friendless and adrift.”
She snorts. “You’ve wounded the snake, nephew. That is not enough. Give
the viper time to regain its venom, and it will strike with twice as much ferocity
as before.”
After her warning, she abruptly starts down the stairs, her black gown
billowing as she whooshes past me. I hurry to follow in her wake.
She talks as we walk at a quicker pace. “As to your question of whom we
are defending ourselves against, when is the last time you’ve stepped foot
outside the safety of these walls and seen what’s happening in your kingdom?”
My lips purse, and I grind my teeth. “I’d be able to if I weren’t so busy
going on fruitless missions you send me on.”
 She pauses at the foot of the stairway. “Fruitless? Ha! We’ve learned much,
even through your failure.”
Mentioning my “failure” again breaks my carefully curated temper. As if
she didn’t expressly know “failure” was a very real possibility with me showing
up unannounced to Leudonia, when she knows my parents hate me.
I grab her by the arm and whip her around to face me. “I’m a king!” I yell,
my voice echoing around the pillars of the castle foyer. I thrust a finger toward
her and bare my teeth. “Not your errand boy.”
Her dark eyes tremble—not with fear, but with merciless scrutiny as they
roam over ever line of my face. It’s unnerving being in the presence of a
powerful sorceress when she’s looking at you like that. As if she’s calculating,
deciding how to best respond to my outburst.
Softness flashes across her thin brow before melding into something
dangerous, severe. “Yes, which is why you had to be the one to go. An
ambassador to Leudonia would not do. Not for such an important task. You
needed to form the alliance with your father on your own.”
“And I told you, I believe he is with us.” My voice is firm and resolute.
The flash of softness from earlier returns, crinkling her brow. Now, she
almost looks forgiving. “Oh, my sweet boy. There is civil unrest afoot in
Camelot. New rebellions taking on new names. Come.”
She takes my hand and pulls me through the foyer. Just like that, it seems
our tense conversation is over, and I get the impression she’s bringing me
somewhere. “Where are you leading me, Aunt Morgan?”
She says nothing.
Once we’re outside the courtyard, she takes me past the portcullis to the
wide hilltop expanse. In the sunny afternoon, my city looks splendid. People
work down below, tiny specks mixed within the alleys and streets and great
crumbling structures of the city.
My eyes start far, to the vast walls enclosed around the city. Then Morgan
drags me to the very edge of the hill, through the yellow grass and dirt, and
nods her chin down.
I bring my eyes from far to near, to the empty plot of land at the base of
the hill, which separates the city from the castle district. In that empty space,
where I won the Tournament of Swords months ago against Gawain, I see
what looks like glinting beams rising from the ground.
I squint against the sun, shielding my eyes. “What . . . what is that?”
 She stays silent, and slowly, my eyes acclimate—
Another jolt of bile threatens to erupt in my throat.
They are spears. Four of them. The furthest two are attached with human
arms and legs in a mangled, hideous representation of wings. The center-right
spear is weighed down by a limbless torso, pooled in dried, brown blood. And
affixed to the center-left spear is a head. Even from this distance I can make
out gray-white hair, wispy in the breeze. Ravens peck at the flesh of the gaunt
skull, and one of them seems to have an eye in its beak.
I know who it is without needing to see that face.
“No,” I croak. Baucillas. I blink rapidly, mouth agape. My eyes burn. A soft
mewling sound comes from my lips. I slowly avoid the gruesome sight of the
dismembered body spitted by the spears, and face my aunt, who stares down
proudly at her handiwork. “Aunt Morgan, why?!” I beg, my voice cracking.
When she looks at me, all cordialness and softness is gone. She’s like a
vampire—silken skin, perfectly smooth and tight, with a scowl so fierce I
cringe when it lands on me. “There is civil unrest in your city, Mordred . . . yet
you spend your days strolling with the enemy!”
“Baucillas was not the enemy! He was faithful to Uther for years!”
“And Uther is the enemy, dammit!” Her voice is a shriek of rage. “As is his
son.”
“Uther was your father!”
She tilts her head. “Yet I was not the one to poison your grandfather’s cups,
was I?”
It’s so unfair, I could scream. “It was your idea, and you know it.” My voice
is weak. Pitiful.
“Let us not place blame.” She waves her hand dismissively. “The fact
remains: The rebellion of Camelot has taken on a new face. The dear
physician down there will warn the insurgents from making a move before we
have time to plan.” She spins, gown swaying in the wind, and storms away
from the cliff ’s edge.
I stumble after her, blind and agonized from what I’ve just seen. What
Morgan’s done while I was gone.
It all comes together. She might think I’m stupid, but it isn’t hard to
connect the stars. She sent me away purposefully, after noticing me growing closer to
Baucillas. She felt threatened by him, so she tortured, killed, and dismembered him once I
was gone and couldn’t protect him. I’m so sorry, Baucillas. You poor, unlucky man.
 For the first time, doubts rise inside me furiously, like lava rising to the tip
of a volcano. Doubts about whom I should follow—the path I should take.
Morgan le Fay is more cutthroat than I ever imagined or knew. I’m . . . unsure
I can keep up with her viciousness.
When we’re back in the courtyard, she wheels around swiftly, her heavy
breasts swaying in her too-revealing gown. “Many see you as a farce, Mordred.
They see Domino as a man, rather than the ideal we originally proposed. You
have been given a kingdom, yet the Rot remains. They blame you. Baucillas is
only a deterrent. Soon, it will not scare the citizens. It will mobilize them.”
“Just as Baucillas said . . . nothing has changed since Arthur.”
She scoffs. “Do not listen to the ramblings of old men. Everything has
changed since Arthur. For one, we have the kingdoms of Kernow, Lyonesse,
Sorestan, Berry, Sauvage, Listenoise, and Leudonia as allies. What does Arthur
have? You already said it: He is adrift. We must cut the viper’s fangs out before
he can strike again.”
I shake my head. “Baucillas didn’t deserve that. He didn’t serve any one
king—he served Camelot! He could have been useful to us!”
My pitch in tone only makes her angrier. Her voice rises like a
thunderstorm. “You sound like Merlin when you say that, foolish boy!
Another rambling old man. We have made use of Baucillas!” Her hand slices in
the direction of the spears below the cliff. She takes a step toward me, the rage
settling in her eyes, igniting a dark power that causes the shadows behind her
to swirl and move with the wind.
I backpedal as she advances slowly, like a moving swamp of death.
Suddenly, it feels cold, as if the sun has been clouded by rain. But I see it in the
sky, shining.
“Don’t you see, sweet child? The physician wished to turn you against me.
Do not let his poison seep into your veins. Are you turning soft, Mordred?
You have changed. What did the old fool tell you—are you starting to doubt
your abilities to lead? What did he say to break your spirit?”
I grab my head with both hands as each question prods me, the ache
building and building until it becomes too much and I feel like my brain is
going to explode. Gnashing my teeth, I yell, “Enough!”
The growing tension vanishes. The warmth returns. The shadows become
stagnant and unmoving. The world is quiet again, both in my head and outside
my body.
 “As you said”—my breath hitches as I compose myself—“it was simply the
ramblings of an old man.”
My words are insincere. For the first time, I’m lying to Morgan, trying my
hardest not to show it on my face.
You want to know what the old fool told me, Morgan? He showed me . . . a different
way. Despite all my reservations, all my suspicions, he didn’t show me a world inhabited by
poison and death and decay.
No. Baucillas showed me a world of . . . hope.
Hope and possibility and flowers in bloom.
He showed me, in vivid detail, what this kingdom once was, and what it could be again.
“Good,” Morgan says, and she flashes me a smile like nothing has
happened. “Now then, I have one more thing to show you. Come, boy.”

† † †

I stare into the vertical slats of a jail cell. I’m back where I started with
Baucillas, with a new man’s face staring at me. Younger, more able-bodied,
angrier. Handsome, with close-cropped brown hair and a beard growing on his
face, due to days of captivity, I assume.
“Sir Lamorak?” I tilt my head. The man stands at the end of the cell, in the
darkness. At first I hardly recognize him. To Morgan, I say, “How did you find
this man?”
“Slinking in the alleys of your kingdom like a rat. He leads the rebellion
against you, along with a woman, as I understand it. I have not yet located the
whore.”
“No,” I say, waving my hand, “I didn’t ask where you found him. I asked how.
Baucillas was unbreakable. He would never betray his brotherhood, rebels or
not.”
“I found him in Baucillas’ dreams.”
My brow rises. “You assaulted the old man’s mind with your dreamspeaking
powers?”
Her scowl returns. “I’m getting tired of you pestering me with these barbs,
Mordred. They sound an awful lot like accusations. I did what I had to do to
secure your sovereignty.”
I chew the inside of my cheek where she can’t see. “What do you plan to
do with him?”
 “Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something, my sweet king. Let us speak of a
plan to crush this rebellion once and for all.”
“I’m all ears.” I can’t take much more of this.
Her smile is sinister. It belongs on her cunning face, and looks like the most
natural thing in the world. Nodding to herself, Morgan strokes her pointed
chin and murmurs, “Perhaps we can lure other unwanted faces into our web,
at the same time as we break the rebels, hmm? Rather than seek them out,
bring them to us . . .”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 23
Guinevere

The night after Kay’s dramatic ascension to King of Sauvage and the speech
to his people, I find him in a stuffy room in the west wing of the castle.
The burly knight limps across the room, slamming a book down on a table
with a wince. Dust motes fly in the candlelight next to him. He pores over a
map, with other manuscripts and scrolls weighing down the curved edges on
the table.
I’ve never taken Kay for the studious type, but here we are. He looks
flustered and engrossed in whatever he’s doing. He doesn’t notice me standing
in the doorway, propped against the frame with my arms crossed. I smile while
I watch him work, until his lips purse with a grimace of pain, and his hand
goes down to his side.
I step into the room. “Here you are.”
He doesn’t look up. His eyes squint when he drags a finger over the map.
“Here I am.”
I rub his broad back. “You shouldn’t exert yourself too much, Kay. You’re
hurt.”
He grunts.
I know better than to nag at such a stubborn man. Whatever he’s doing is
too important, and his wound can wait. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all
before.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, pointing to his knee, which sticks out from the
side of the stool he’s sitting on.
He finally glances up, his chin twitching with a barely restrained smile. “Not
as good of a seat as you had last night in the tub, lamb. But it’s free.”
My eyes flash with desire as I plop down lightly, making sure to keep my
weight away from the bandage at his side. He’s shirtless, which is a sight to see.
I’ve never seen such a stacked nerd. I’m definitely not complaining.
 “It’ll do,” I say. He’s right—his knee isn’t as good of a throne as his cock.
Alas, he’s busy. Toying with his strands of long red hair while he analyzes the
map, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he mumbles, sounding frustrated.
I bristle. I have a feeling he’s not frustrated with me, but simply taking it
out on me. I’m not going to let that slide. “Hey.” I cup his chin through his
beard and tilt his head to look up into my eyes. “Don’t get short with me, big
guy. I’m not the enemy.”
His green orbs dim, the lines around them softening. With a heavy sigh, he
nods. “I’m sorry, little lamb. I’m going over the documents my father left
behind, trying to gauge his plan.”
“I’m guessing it’s not good news, given your snippy ‘tude.” I click my
tongue, letting his chin go so he can look at the map again.
It is fascinating, admittedly. I don’t think I’ve seen a drawn sketch of Logres
since I was transported to this dangerous world of knights and kings. Then
again, I know cartography from medieval times was sketchy and unreliable at
best, so I’m not sure what to make of its accuracy. From what I can tell, it
mirrors what I know of the UK pretty well, at least in terms of its overall
shape.
“I have no idea what snippy ‘tude is, but yes, it’s not great news.”
“Tell me.” My voice brooks no argument. “Oh, I forgot the whole reason I
came looking for you. The rest of the guys are waiting for you in a conference
room downstairs. Arthur said you’d know which one.”
Kay grumbles, as he’s wont to do. “I know. That’s why I’m in here.”
“Hiding?”
He lets out a dismayed “Pah,” and glances at me out the corner of his eye.
“Learning. So I don’t go into that room empty-handed. We need to plot our
next move carefully.”
“Okay. So what are these markers? Maybe I can help.”
Flat pieces of wood are scattered across various spots on the map. Most of
them are dyed green, generally sticking to the outskirts of the map—the
southern coast, up north, and a big heap of them near the middle.
A single brown shard of wood sits north of our location in Forest Sauvage.
About twenty tiny pebbles circle that piece of wood.
Kay traces the pebbles with his finger. “This is where my father believed we
were located, based on his writings and correspondences with his scouts.” He
hooks his thumb to one of the manuscripts next to the map. “As you can see,
he didn’t know much. He wanted to focus his search on the northern border
of Sauvage, to Sorestan, and into the southern area of Estrangore.”
I frown. “He wasn’t far off. We’ve been in all those places. Recently, too.”
“No, he wasn’t far off.” Kay pulls at his beard then gestures to the green
markers strewn about the map. “These are the armies we have working against
us.”
I gulp. There’re a lot of them. I feel lines digging deep grooves into my
forehead. “Shit. I’m guessing the single brown piece is . . . us?”
“Correct.” He reaches over to a pile of little shards, grabs a couple brown
ones, and scoots them off the leftmost, western side of the map, where I
consider Hibernia—Ireland, I think—to be located. “These two pieces can be
Iseult and Tristan, and the forces they’re gathering in Hibernia. Hopefully they
managed to procure enough boats to get across the Manks Sea safely with the
Pengwern and Kernow troops.”
My head bobs as I study the rest of the map. “They’re quite far. You really
think we’ll see them in little less than a month?”
He lets out a sigh. “Won’t matter if we can’t build our forces here on the
mainland.” He picks up some loose pieces of wrinkled, yellowed parchment,
and starts sifting through them, letting them drift onto the map. “According to
Father’s writings, the army raised against us is more formidable than we
thought.”
“Fuck.”
He points to locations on the map. “King Mark of Kernow, we already
knew, is allied with Mordred. And his brother King Meliadus, down at the
southern tip of Logres. But so is King Claudas of Berry, even further south—
a tyrant of a warlord. Arthur believes we have King Ban of Benoic and King
Bors of Gannes as allies, but they’ve been locked in conflict with Claudas for
years.”
“Which means they can’t reach us.”
“Yes. If Bors and Ban can’t reach us, Claudas is doing his job by
minimizing our army.”
God, this just seems to get worse and worse.
“Beyond that,” Kay continues, apparently not content with the southern
side being hopeless, “we have Sorestan above us, here”—he points north of
Sauvage—“and likely King Bagdemagus of Gorre.”
 “We have them?” I ask, hope in my voice.
He snorts. “No. We have them as enemies. I assume. Queen Agnes of
Sorestan is an ally of Morgan le Fay’s. Bagdemagus is the King of Gorre,
however Morgan calls that place home. No one will go against her if they
value their lives. All this isn’t taking into consideration Morgan’s wretchkin
horde, of which we have no idea the numbers.”
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. “So you’re saying
we’re totally screwed.”
He blows a raspberry. “In short? The odds, in my estimation, are ten-to-
one against us. Even with Sauvage’s garrison.”
Then we have to be smarter and more resourceful than our enemies. Kay probably
hasn’t heard of the Battle of Thermopylae or the three-hundred Spartans that
held off a million Persian soldiers or whatever. I’ve seen the fucking movie,
though.
That being said, even if the movie was inspiring . . . all the Spartans fucking
died. Kind of trying to avoid that.
“Mordred and Morgan must understand all this, too, right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I tap my chin and narrow my eyes on a section Kay hasn’t talked about,
even further north of Sauvage and Sorestan. “What about these markers you
have down as enemies?”
“Listenoise,” he says, pointing to the one on the northeast, “and Leudonia,”
on the northwest.
An idea I had earlier comes springing back to me. “The kingdoms of
Percival and Gawain’s fathers.”
“Yes,” he grunts.
I look at him. He looks at me.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
His face goes blank. “I . . . doubt it? You’re unpredictable.”
I let out a “Pah” of my own. “I totally thought we were gonna have a super
cool jinx moment right there, King Kay.”
He frowns. “Stop saying words I don’t know the meaning of, little lamb. It
makes me feel stupid.”
I chuckle and bounce off his knee, standing. Then I reach my hand out to
take his. “Sorry, big guy. Come on, let’s talk about it with the others. I’ve got
an idea, and just in case it’s really stupid, I don’t want to have to say it twice.”
 † † †

The conference room consists of all my knights and lovers, plus Sir Rhys—the
newest Marshal of Sauvage—and Lady Mary. We’re seated at a long
rectangular table. It’s a poor replacement for the Round Table of Camelot, but
we have to work with what we’ve got.
My guys stare at me with hints of excitement and horniness, probably
because I’m excited to spew all these thoughts out of my head. I’m also
anxious, and I know they can smell it on me.
“Okay,” I start, standing from my seat and clearing my throat. I wave my
hand to my left, where Kay sits. “Kay has brought me up to speed on the
overall fuckedness of our situation.”
Arthur and Lancelot share looks. Percival chuckles. Gawain frowns.
“Mordred and Morgan have us at ten-to-one odds.”
“That’s Kay’s estimate,” Arthur grumbles, folding his hands on the table.
I slant my head. “What’s yours?”
“Twenty-to-one.”
I gawk. “You think they have . . . two-thousand soldiers for every hundred
we have?”
Arthur nods solemnly. Despite this admission, he doesn’t seem concerned
or scared in the slightest.
I can’t say the same. My heart is going apeshit, trying to riot out of my
ribcage. “Okay, then we clearly need to work smarter, not harder.”
“Could you narrow that down?” Arthur asks.
He’s used to being in the driver’s seat. I can tell it’s irking him that I’m
coming up with a plan. Or maybe it’s because he’s given up hope. I wish
making Kay the King of Sauvage would renew that hope. I have to make sure
Arthur doesn’t think of me as a ditzy girl whose “helpfulness” ends up being
more of a nuisance than aid. Not that I think Arthur thinks that, though—
Okay, ADHD, get a grip.
I clear my throat again and point down at the map, which Kay brought in at
my request. “Listenoise and Leudonia. Realms of King Pellinore and King
Lot, respectively.”
“We know, little one.”
“Realms of Percy’s dad, and Gawain’s dad. Allies of Mordred, presumably.”
 At that, the light- and dark-haired knights go rigid in their seats, sitting a bit
straighter.
“And where are we?” I ask, tossing up my arms.
Arthur sighs and leans forward. “Sauvage.”
I beam at him, playing innocent and naïve. At least he’s humoring me.
“Realm of Kay’s dad . . . and now Kay.”
Lancelot growls, “Just say what you’re trying to say, fireheart. The war room
is no place to tiptoe.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dammit, you guys are slow.” When I look
up, my brow is arched with determination. “We need to do what we’ve done
here . . . up in Listenoise and Leudonia. There, I said it.”
Grumbling, argumentative voices rise up immediately, namely from Percival
and Gawain.
“You don’t know what you’re fucking asking, little lark,” Gawain snarls.
“Snoop . . . this is uncharacteristic of you.”
I raise my hands in surrender, even if I’m far from surrendering. This is me
learning to be cutthroat and ruthless like the rest of these guys. “Hey, we’re all thinking
it!”
“No. We’re not.” Gawain folds his arms over his chest like a petulant child
who wants to shove his fingers in his ears and yell, “La la la, I’m not listening!”
The voices get loud, overwhelming, as Kay joins in and yells at Gawain.
Rhys speaks up to back Kay—or go against him?—and Mary’s eyes dart
around nervously, because she knows even as regent of Sauvage, she has no
control over these wild dudes. I’ve opened up chaos and—
SLAM!
Arthur’s fist smashes the tabletop and silences everyone. Once all eyes are
on him, he says, “Let Guinevere talk, you fucking idiots. I want to hear what
she has to say.”
I gently clamp my gaping mouth shut. “T-Thank you.” He gestures me on
with a twist of his wrist and a small smirk. “Percy,” I say, “give me some stats
on King Pellinore.”
Percival frowns. “He’s . . . old.”
“And? What’s his heir situation like?”
“I am one of twelve children—”
“Lord, your pops is like a rabbit.”
“—and, to my knowledge, there are only two of us left.”
 I stutter to a stop as my eyes widen. Guilt floods through me. “Oh, Percy,
I’m . . . I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
His smile is weak and small. “I know, my star, which is why it’s unwise to
stomp around situations you’re unfamiliar with. Regardless of my father’s
bountiful offspring, I am illegitimate.”
I quickly recall his story: Percival’s stepdad was a high-ranking official in
King Pellinore’s court, married to Percy’s mom. Pellinore slept with the
official’s wife, and she had Percy. When the high-ranking stepdad died of
mysterious circumstances, Percy was forced out of Listenoise with his mother
and sister, to live in the woods. I have no idea what happened to the other ten
kids.
It’s a touchy subject, for sure. I feel ashamed for bringing it up. “I’m sorry,”
I say again, bowing my head and sitting. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Hold on now,” a voice says, and we all look over to Sir Rhys. “Sauvage has
scouts in every court of Logres. It’s our specialty. Our network reports on
rumors all across the land.”
Kay says, “Your point, Rhys?”
The soldier leans over the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level.
“We’ve heard rumors circulating from Listenoise and Leudonia in recent
months. Rumors connecting the two kingdoms through an unexpected bond.”
He glances over at Gawain, and then Arthur, his eyes suddenly nervous. “I
apologize in advance, sirs. Reportedly, Queen Anna of Leudonia has become
barren, or aged past her childbearing years. Because of that, King Lot has
looked elsewhere to sire more heirs.”
Surprisingly, Gawain doesn’t look pissed to hear Rhys talking about his
mom or dad like that. “I wouldn’t put it past him,” he murmurs. “The man is
obsessed with having heirs.”
Percival snorts. “And my father is obsessed with getting them killed.”
The room falls silent at Percival’s macabre joke.
Rhys continues, his voice tentative, knowing he’s walking a tightrope.
“According to our scouts, Lot is requesting a princess from the neighboring
kingdom of Listenoise, because King Pellinore is an old friend and war
comrade.” He scratches his cheek, brow creasing together. “That always struck
me as odd, because I wasn’t aware Listenoise had a princess still alive.”
For a second, there’s heady silence.
Then Percival gasps.
 Our eyes shoot over to him.
“Dindrane?” he croaks.
I jolt up, palms flat on the table. “Who’s that, Percy?”
I can tell by the look in his dewy gaze. Memories of dreams come flooding
back: the woods, the mother, the lute-playing boy . . . and his teasing sister.
Percival doesn’t have to say a thing.
“This, um, secretive coupling,” I say, “would solidify an alliance between
Leudonia and Listenoise?”
Rhys hesitates, then nods.
“And we know King Lot in Leudonia is already fighting for Mordred, most
likely, since Ector summered with him and convinced him to.” I bite my lip,
mind swirling. “Which means Lot’s union with Pellinore would drag Listenoise
to Team Mordred.”
More nodding from around the table.
A moment passes. It all comes to me swiftly, abruptly.
“New plan,” I say. Work smarter. Be more resourceful. “If we can’t beat their
numbers, guys, we diminish their numbers.”
Arthur smiles at me and gives a small nod, like he’s proud I’ve taken my line
of thinking to its logical conclusion. Even if he’s already thought of it, he’s
letting me do the honors. He’s showing trust in me as the eventual Ever
Queen—letting me get some much-needed experience of leadership under my
belt.
I knock my fist against the table, echoing Arthur’s action from earlier. “We
need to stop the alliance between Leudonia and Listenoise from happening.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 24
Guinevere

After two weeks of traveling from Castle Sauvage toward the kingdom of
Listenoise, we’re almost there. So far, traveling to the northeast corner of
Logres has been a breeze, and illuminating when I consider the natural
wonders this land has to offer. Everything I’ve seen puts the postcards of
England from my world to shame.
“I wish we weren’t in such a hurry,” I tell the guys at night over a campfire.
We’re in the middle of the countryside, with rolling green hills around us. This
far north of Camelot and east of Gorre means we don’t have many enemies
on the road to worry about. We can have our fire on the open road and not
fear highwaymen, goblins, or patrolling soldiers who might see us.
We’ve run across a few Sauvage scouting troops while circumventing the
eastern side of Forest Sauvage’s tree line. Arthur sent some of the scouts west
to wait for Tristan and Iseult’s return from Hibernia to inform them where
we’re going and where to meet us.
The guys peer at me through the crackling flames, questions in their eyes, as
if they doubt my resolve to do what needs to be done in Listenoise.
They’re misinterpreting me. I smile and lean my head against Arthur’s
shoulder. “Only because this would be the most charming sightseeing
adventure of my life.”
Arthur cuddles me, wrapping an arm over my shoulder and pulling me tight
against him. I can smell his scent of leather and warm summer fields. Here, he
isn’t clouded by a pervasive curse, but rather the calming scents of nature.
His voice is rich and soothing next to my ear. “Someday, my queen, when
we aren’t focused on war and political maneuvering, or harried with building
an army, I will take you across Logres, and we will do it proper.”
His words make me feel warm and appreciated. I nestle against him, trying
to meld my body into his frame.
 Being so far removed from the Rot, I imagine this area is the most
wondrously green and vibrant in Logres. We’ve passed through colorful trees,
natural expanses of bogs and wetlands, and picturesque grasslands that rise
and fall with the rolling hills. We’ve passed quaint villages, overgrown expanses
of woodlands, and sturdy medieval bridges that stretch over babbling creeks
and rushing rivers.
It’s been a dream I haven’t been able to enjoy. Things are tense as we try to
nail down our plan. Even that is difficult, however, because we aren’t sure
what we’re walking into.
It’s hard to make and execute a plan when you don’t know the
circumstances surrounding said plan. Basically, we’re winging it. We’re in
agreement about the desired end result: stop the alliance between Listenoise
and Leudonia from solidifying.
Doing that is much trickier than simply snapping our fingers or convincing
both parties to join us instead of Mordred. Both these kingdoms have their
own courts, their own nobility, their own rules. King Arthur has no jurisdiction
over either of them. We’re at the mercy of two kings we know are allied with
Mordred—at least loosely—ever since giving him the nod at his unjustified
Meeting of Kings.
The one thing we have going for us? History. King Pellinore and King Lot
were both allies of King Uther, and that has to count for something. At least
Arthur hopes so. They were honorary Knights of the Round Table, back in
the day of Uther’s rule in Camelot. More sons of Leudonia sat at the Round
Table than any other family: Gawain, Mordred, Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth.
Sadly, only two sons remain, and they are at gross odds with one another.
How awful it’s come to this. When I gaze across the fire at Gawain’s bowed head,
an ocean of sorrow and pity engulfs me. How does Gawain do it? How can he dodge
his own biases and beliefs to hold such steadfast loyalty to King Arthur? Especially given
everything that’s happened?
His own biological family abandoned him because he was born
“illegitimate.” They welcomed him back like nothing had happened years later,
after he survived the cruel sea and lived with fisherfolk as a kid. He now sees
those fisherfolk—who are trapped in Camelot—as his true parents.
Meanwhile, King Lot sees him as some kind of golden ticket, as if the betrayal
of sending Gawain out to sea as a baby was simply a test of Gawain’s fortitude
and resilience. A test to see what kind of man Gawain truly is.
 He’s a better man than King Lot will ever be, that asshole.
Three of Gawain’s brothers are dead. The remaining one is an enemy. One
of them, Agravain, tried to rape me—the woman Gawain loves more than
anyone. One of the men we’re traveling with killed all three of them. Not
without cause, of course, but still . . . Gawain holding it together even with Sir
Lancelot in our group is a testament to his trust and loyalty to Arthur and me.
He epitomizes the adage of putting others before yourself; putting his own
desires aside for the greater good, which, in this case, means reinstalling
Arthur as King of Camelot and hopefully eradicating the Rot.
And here, when I first met him, I thought Sir Gawain was the most wicked
man I’d ever come into contact with. He’s depraved and diabolical in all the
ways I love, but it’s not without reason. He’s had to be ruthless and cunning his
whole life, to survive. He’s not afraid to speak his mind, disagree, or talk shit
to Arthur—probably the only Knight of the Round Table who can do that.
He’s quick to anger and quicker to forgive, if his ice-thin relationship with
Lancelot is anything to go by.
My eyes veer to the man inches to his left, gold hair flowing over his
shoulders. Sir Percival. My prettiest knight, and another one who has been
tempered by the rigors of an unbelievably shitty childhood. Stepfather killed
by his kingly real father. No one wants to say it, but that’s what I think when I
hear “he died of mysterious circumstances.” Everyone believed that man was
Percy’s father, and with him out of the way, King Pellinore could easily claim
illegitimacy to his ill-begotten child, to pave the way for his eleven other
children or whatever.
Like Gawain, Percival is one of two remaining children born to his royal
father. What the fuck happened to the other ten?! It’s something I want to ask
Percival. I’m worried about the answer. God, this world is brutal.
Before I arrived in Logres, I never fully understood the implications of
“legitimacy,” or the heavy domino effect illegitimacy plays when it comes to
ruling a kingdom.
Bloodline is everything here . . . except when it comes to Arthur and the
Round Table. His is the only company I’ve found that relies on merit rather
than bloodline. Kay isn’t his blood brother, but Arthur treats him like one.
Lancelot has no familial relationship to Arthur, that I know of, and even
abandoned the Round Table to go searching for a friend. He was welcomed
back, albeit begrudgingly. Gawain and Percival? Stalwart defenders of Arthur’s
kingship, and unwavering allies to his cause. Loyal to the bone. Warriors of
unbelievable prowess. Even Sir Lamorak in Camelot fights under threat of
discovery and execution, raising a counter-rebellion in Arthur’s name. There
are also dozens of other knights whose names escape me who I’m sure are still
loyal to Arthur. They just don’t know where he is.
Arthur is a man who demands respect and loyalty, and doles it out in kind.
There’s not another man I’d rather be sitting next to with my head lovingly
cradled against his shoulder.
All his Knights of the Round Table are endlessly loyal . . . save one. I blink away the
thought before Mordred’s treachery can imprint itself on my mind. I don’t
want to think about him right now. He’s a problem for the future, hundreds of
miles south of here. I know we’ll have to deal with him, but I can’t bring
myself to do it in this introspective moment.
So I turn my eyes back to Percy. When I look at him, I see a bright mirror
to Gawain’s dark surface. A mirror to Kay, too, honestly. Men who were
abused, neglected, traumatized by their parents. By their fathers, specifically.
It’s no surprise to me why Kay installed Lady Mary—former servant girl
and baby factory to King Ector, and the only person who was ever nice to Kay
when he was a child—as the Queen-Regent of Sauvage. Kay doesn’t fucking
trust men. Especially men with power.
Percy being deathly worried about his sister, Dindrane, about potentially
being dealt to King Lot in Leudonia? Same thing. Fucked-up men with fucked-
up ambitions.
King Lot had five potential male heirs when I first showed up. Now he has
two. The odds for Dindrane, if she gets in his clutches, are not good. Like
Mary in Sauvage, Dindrane will be Lot’s implicit mistress and heir-producer.
Percival doesn’t trust it, and neither do I. We must do everything we can to
stop that from happening.
And what does all this mean for Queen Anna? The legitimate ruler
alongside Lot in Leudonia—also Arthur’s sister and Gawain’s mother? I mean,
talk about being dealt a shitty hand. I can’t even imagine the public humiliation
she must face with these nasty rumors floating around about her barrenness,
or being past the age of usefulness.
Maybe Lot should take a hint and do everything he can to protect the two
remaining sons he has, rather than pit them against each other in a battle royal
to see who is worthier or stronger.
 I close my eyes, shaking my head as the thoughts dive deep into my soul.
Men and their craving for legacy, done at the risk of everything else. Ambition for
ambition’s sake. It disgusts me.
Even if we get rid of the “Guinevere cycle” like Merlin wants us to, these cycles of war
and ruling and heirs won’t end for centuries. Or ever, really. Even in my modern world,
bloodline is everything. You look at the wealthiest, most powerful, most influential people in
the world, with more than enough resources to take care of everyone’s problems . . . and it all
comes down to greed and the desire for legacy and heritage. The “next in line.” Who gets my
stuff when I die? How can my legacy continue for centuries, like those of the medieval
kings?
In short: How can I live forever?
It’s funny when I think about it. Out of all the greedy kings in history, so
concerned with their birthright, heritage, and legacy, it’s the mythical King
Arthur who is most famous. He’s outlived them all.
He is the one king who can band the others together. The one who
symbolizes valor, integrity, honor, and morality—even if the man I know is
quite morally gray and questionably valorous. His legend is bigger than he is.
To the people who have never met him, in future storybooks and fables, he
is the one king who can bring true legitimacy to anyone else, simply by virtue
of being aligned with him. The people’s king. The king people idolize.
This is how I know I’m doing the right thing. The inner TED Talk spinning
circles in my mind spells out why and how I know I’m on the right team.
When my eyes open, hours must have passed. The sky is a lighter gray,
rather than bruised purple. My head rests in Arthur’s lap, where his hand is
protectively placed over my neck, hand curling in my hair.
It’s moments like these I’ll never take for granted. The calm before the
storm. The easiness of our relationship, despite being surrounded by war and
strife. The simplicity of a hand curled in my hair. He’s sitting back against a
tree stump, with his head lolled, asleep. No one else is around the smoking
embers of the fire. They’ve either retreated to their tents or are taking watch
somewhere else.
I smile in Arthur’s lap, feeding off his warmth. I feel more at peace with
myself and my decisions than I have in a long time. Having a huge king draped
over me like I’m his most prized possession doesn’t hurt, either.
Maybe my peacefulness stems from the serene quality of life here in the
countryside. Or maybe everything I thought about, regarding kings and legacy,
was simply a dream.
I close my eyes with the smile still on my face, eager to soak up another
couple minutes of sleep before we have to start moving again.
When I hear a grunt and the sounds of someone sitting very close at the
ashes of our fire, my eyes jolt open and my head bounces up off Arthur’s lap.
Somehow, Arthur doesn’t wake up. His hand flops off my neck onto his
thigh, head still rolled back against the log.
With a sharp inhale, I stare across the fire at a familiar face . . . except he
looks even younger than he did the last time I saw him, only a couple months
ago.
My voice is low as I spit the word out. “Merlin.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 25
Guinevere

“Am I dreaming?” I ask.

“Does it matter?” he replies, folding his legs and placing his hands in his
lap. His voice is almost comically high. His cheeks are rosy, cherubic, smooth,
his hair a wiry mop like I remember, jutting out at all ends.
Merlin looks so young now. Once, I made fun of him for appearing to be
on the cusp of puberty. Now I feel bad about that, because he’s little more
than a young teen. It’s no joke. I’m reminded of Arthur’s confusing words
when he first saw young Merlin: “You’ve not aged well.”
Now I totally get what he meant.
“Of course it matters,” I say. My voice is not cordial. I’m still suspicious of
him—the way he left us after the fight against Mordred in the valley; what he
said to Lancelot to get him to leave my side; his motives and drives; the secrets
he’s forcing me to keep about the heady curse and cycle.
No, this can’t be a dream. In my dreams, he was the Old One. A kooky old man with a
huge Gandalf beard and a rickety laugh. That is, unless he’s shape-shifting to confuse me. If
Morgan le Fay can do it, I have no doubt Merlin can, too. Fucking wizards.
If this isn’t a dream, why is Arthur still asleep? Why did no one raise the
alarm when Merlin approached, and how did he get so close to us?
I take stock of myself, to see how I feel. I don’t have any of the soreness
associated with days-long travel, or the foggy mind of just waking, or the
jitters of a hectic morning.
In fact, I don’t feel . . . anything.
When Merlin says nothing for a long while, just staring at me, my brow
furrows angrily. “What are you doing here?”
He quirks a smile, blinking his big mischievous eyes. “Once I realized you
were close to my regular haunts, I just had to come see how my fiery maiden is
getting on.”
 Regular haunts? This is where he lives when he’s not stirring up trouble south of here? I
snort. “Yeah, well, you’ve missed a lot.”
“I’ve missed nothing.” His eyes twinkle, and he taps his temple.
Right. Keeper of Memories and all that.
He hasn’t invaded my dreams in a long time—ever since my fateful reunion
with my knights. “If you know everything that happens in Logres, then why
did you feel the need to check in on me? Just to see the surprised look on my
face?”
He chuckles and leans back. “That’s very good, Guinevere.”
He has a way of sounding condescending even as a freaking boy. Maybe
especially as a boy, because there’s a perpetual snarky expression on his face that
isn’t there when it’s hidden beneath a giant beard.
“You have no reason to be angry at me,” he says, as if it’s some sort of
apology. “I did not create the cycle. Your ancestors did that. I’m simply trying
to save Logres from its grisly fate.”
“Yeah, well, you have some weird-ass methods.”
He laughs.
“You’re also trying to save yourself, don’t forget.” I point a finger at him,
over the ashen circle of the campfire. “Your lifeblood is intrinsically aligned
with the fate of Logres. You look even younger than when we last met.”
“Too true, fiery maiden. My reverse-aging has accelerated at a worrying rate
in recent months.” He nods knowingly, sadness flashing over his face before
it’s replaced by the sardonic smirk. “My ambitions are not always altruistic,
Guinevere. Though, at its core, I am not the enemy. Remember that.”
“I’ll try.” Doesn’t mean I have to trust you.
I glance over at sleeping Arthur, his chest gently rising and falling. Behind
us are the others’ tents, with my knights blissfully unaware inside. “If this isn’t
a dream, what have you done to them?”
“I never said it wasn’t a dream.”
I roll my eyes and groan. Never mind. It’s useless trying to get a fucking straight
answer out of this guy. I study his face, and anger pulses in my temples. My eyes
narrow accusingly.
He tilts his head to the side. “Might I ask why you’re looking at me like you
wish the de-aging process would just finish its job already?”
“What did you say to Lancelot?” I spit through gritted teeth. “To get him to
abandon me in the valley. What did you say to bring out that evil monster
inside him at Castle Chariot? He told me what he did, and I know it didn’t just
come out of nowhere.”
He gives an infuriating little half-shrug. “I simply reminded him of his true
nature, Guinevere.”
“As a monster?”
He clicks his tongue, pursing his lips to stare up at the sky, as if he’s
searching for the right words. Then his gaze levels on me again. “As an
avenger of injustice.”
Great. So Lancelot is an Avenger. I’ve heard it all now.
“If you lived in my world and timeline, you would have second thoughts
about calling him that. Lancelot is no Captain America.”
He leans forward with a smile stretching across his cheeks, his eyes
glittering with questions. “Ooh, what’s a Captain America? Sounds important.”
I tap my temple and bob my eyebrows. “I have my own special memories I
keep, wizard.”
He scowls and flaps a hand at me. “Fair play, fiery maiden.”
When he abruptly stands to his feet, I stand, too, because I don’t want him
to be looking down at me. It would make me feel even more vulnerable than I
already do.
“I did come with a warning, Lady Guinevere.”
I knew you didn’t just show up to pop in and say hi.
I give him an expectant look, lifting a single brow and folding my arms over
my chest.
“Be on your guard when you traverse the kingdoms of Listenoise and
Leudonia. I am aware you’re heading to the former, currently, to conduct a
meeting with King Pellinore.”
“Yes. What do you mean, be on your guard? What should I look out for?”
“The air has seemed odd in this land for weeks. As if the presence of
something evil lurks just under the surface.”
Goddammit. Just one straight answer! “I don’t know what that means,” I say
curtly, clamping my molars together.
“Neither do I.”
I throw my arms up, frustration taking over. “Christ almighty, Merlin.
You’re really useless, you know that? These riddles get old when our lives are at
stake! Can’t you just say what you mean?”
 “I’m afraid not.” He somehow sounds truthful. Almost sorry and pitying,
like he really can’t recall why he’s saying what he’s saying. It’s confusing. When
he taps his temple this time, he says, “The effects of my de-aging, you see? I
don’t remember this part of the cycle.”
“You just knew to come to me?”
“Yes. Because you are intrinsically linked with the cycle, I feel your fiery
heart when you’re close. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to see you, and,
coupled with what you know, it was an easy decision to come find you. I had
to look into your eyes.”
“Coupled with . . . what I know?”
“The secrets my dreamspeaking bestowed upon you. About Mordred,
about the cycle, about the curse.”
Ah. Right.
“Have you told anyone?”
“No.” It hurts to say. It hurts even more because it’s the truth. I hate
keeping these secrets from the men I love.
“Good. I can tell you’re being honest.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can do it, Merlin. Arthur has to learn the
truth at some point.”
His voice is urgent as he leans forward. “No, he doesn’t. If he learns
Mordred is his son, and refuses to do battle with him, it could disrupt the
time-rippling effect of the Holy Grail. It could spell the end of Logres.”
I let out a heavy sigh, puffing my cheeks up and blowing through my lips.
“Fine. I’ll hold off as long as possible.”
“Until you are certain Mordred and Arthur will do battle.”
Therein lies the rub, Merlin. Because that’s the whole reason I would tell Arthur—to
keep him from fighting Mordred. I simply can’t see Arthur die! And, as much as I dislike
Mordred, I feel like he’s nothing more than a sorry pawn for Morgan le Fay. I don’t think
he’s the evil warlord people make him out to be. There has to be some redemptive quality
inside him. I just know there is.
“Your expression scares me, Lady Guinevere.”
I frown. “Sorry. It’s my Resting Bitch Face.” I tug my arms closer together
over my chest.
He grunts and nods. “Very well. Keep the secrets close to your chest.
Please. When you and your knights are ready, I will find you to lead you
onward.”
 With that, he turns around like he’s finished with me.
Confusion spreads through me, and I’m leaping over the divot of the
campfire before he can make it two steps. “Wait!” I yell, and reach out for him.
“You can’t just end on a bombshell like that! What do you mean you’ll find us
when we’re ready? Ready for wh—”
I grab his hand to spin him around.
And the whole world goes white.

† † †

“Hm,” says the voice with a raspy grunt. “This is worrying.”

A light, ethereal laugh fills the space. “Nonsense, my love. What did you expect?”
I’m standing at the edge of a crystal-blue lagoon. A craggy cliff face arches over the top
of the circular body of water, covering it in shade.
Two people stand ankle-high in the water, near its bank.
The one with the airy laugh is a woman with pristine white skin and dark hair. She is
nude, and it takes me almost no time at all to recognize her.
The Lady of the Lake, I think, gasping in my mind.
The man standing across from her, mere inches away? The man she called “my love”?
The Old One himself, complete with chest-length white beard. The hem of his dark robe
soaks in the water.
The Lady of the Lake and Merlin . . . lovers.
There’s something between them. A darkness shading the sparse area between their
bodies. I step closer, wading into the water to get a closer look. As it parts around my legs,
neither of them glance over at me. Like all the dreams I’ve had before, the subjects of my
visions don’t see me. It’s as if I’m not even here—a fly on the wall. Invisible and invincible
in this hidden pool, only here to spy on the secrets unraveling before me.
But what secret does this particular vision hold?
Once I’m within five feet of them, I can see what they’re holding between them: The baby
in their joined, cradled arms lets out a coo. He wriggles and fusses.
“What will we do with him?” Merlin asks. “He can’t be seen with me.”
Another chuckle from the Lady of the Lake. “And he can be seen beside a fairy living
in the waters of this world?”
“You could take him to the Fairy Realm.”
“No. He was birthed on this plane, and he belongs on it.”
 “Look at him. He belongs nowhere.” Merlin shakes his head. His bushy white brow
arches sadly. “He will live a horrible life.”
“Like all the human spawn of this place,” says the Lady of the Lake. “You’re too
harsh, my love. Give him to one of your kings to raise. If this child can find the one
prophesied to break our world, he will be destined for great things.”
Break our world? I thought I was supposed to rescue Logres, not destroy it!
I mull that over a bit longer, and realize this baby must have been born before the
Guinevere cycle began—before my ancestor ran off with the Holy Grail and punched a hole
in the space-time of our worlds.
Guinevere was prophesied to destroy the world . . . and Guinevere is prophesied to save
it.
Merlin says, “You think something like this will be destined for anything other than
madness and pain?”
I finally catch a glimpse of the baby’s face between their bodies, and I inhale sharply.
Black veins creep up his neck and tiny face, spider-webbing across his chin and cheeks. His
eyes are pools of darkness.
“A whelp sired from a man of demonic blood, and a woman of fairy blood,” Merlin
murmurs, chuckling in disbelief. “He will be powerful. If he lives.”
“He will live,” the Lady says. “Just remind him every once in a while. Remind him who
he is.”
I gasp loudly.
Remind him of his true nature.
Their heads whip over to me.
“Who’s there?” the Lady of the Lake yells. “Who is that floating on the wind?”
Merlin bares his teeth in my direction. He’s not looking at me, but through me.
“Whatever you are—begone, wretched voyeur!”
He waves his hand just as I’m backpedaling in fear, my heart hammering in my chest—

† † †

White-hot pain sizzles through my skin, down to my bone, piercing into my

brain.
I stumble back, nearly falling, as Merlin snatches his hand away from me.
His young face twists with a scowl. “Get your hands off me, woman!” he
shouts, voice cracking. His lean eyebrows arch with fury. “What did you just
do to me?”
 My mouth opens and closes. “I-I-I—”
“Speak!”
“I don’t know!”
He rubs his hand, as if my touch physically pained him.
Did I just . . . dreamspeak to him? To Merlin’s memory?
A knowing expression dawns on his face. His mouth forms a tiny O while
he stares daggers at me. Then, his features soften, ever so slightly. “Your
powers are manifesting,” he says in a low murmur. “After lying dormant for so
long, you are becoming something even I do not understand.”
“W-What?” I croak, edging forward.
He steps back. Scared of me. Frightened of my potential.
It breaks my heart. My stomach sinks.
“We have come to a point of the prophecy I do not recognize,” he says. “I
cannot help you, Lady Guinevere. Whatever you saw inside, I urge you to
forget it.”
He turns to leave.
“Merlin, wait!”
Slowly, he speaks over his shoulder. “Avalon save us from what’s to come in
the future.”
Tears come to my eyes as he wanders away, toward the fog cloying in the
early morning, sweeping across the low countryside. Before long, he’s
disappeared completely.
Then I recall what my vision showed me. The memories flood me like they
belong to me and not someone else—like I wasn’t the invader and voyeur in
that moment.
I turn around, realization settling into my bones and making my hands
tremble. I face the tent furthest from me, where I hear rustling and movement
as the knight inside begins to wake.
Another secret for me to hold close to my heart, with shaking arms.
Another painful revelation that belongs to me and only me, because it might
alter everything good, twist everything into turmoil, if it’s discovered.
Merlin is a goddamn demon . . .
. . . and Sir Lancelot is his son.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 26
Percival

“You all right, snoop?”

She’s lost in thought, head bowed, staring at the grass our cart tramples
over. I’m sitting in the middle of the bench, hands on the reins, leading our
horses along, while Gawain sits to my left. In the other cart, Kay, Arthur, and
Lancelot are squished together.
We haven’t put Lancelot or Gawain in the same cart for the entire two-week
journey. A few nights ago, when the rest of the group had retired to their
tents, Arthur told me in confidence he’s worried about those two. Worried
their tenuous relationship will snap at any moment.
In this moment, I’m more worried about my Ever Queen. She hasn’t been
herself ever since waking. She’s been quiet and listless.
I wonder if she’s riddled with anxiety knowing we’ll reach Castle Corbenic,
the seat of my father, today.
When she doesn’t acknowledge my words, I glance over at Gawain. He
makes a face and shrugs, scrunching his brow.
Snoop’s red curls hide most of her face.
“Guin?” I say.
Her head jerks up, eyes glazed. “Huh?”
Her face is tight with worry, lines stretching her cheeks. She looks so small
and helpless, gazing at me like a clueless animal caught in lamplight.
With a soft smile, as kind as I can muster, I reach out to tuck strands of her
hair behind her ear so I can have a better view of her face. I give her an easy
pet across the back of her head and neck, and speak gently. “You’ve been
quiet all day. Is anything the matter?” I clear my throat, donning a more
serious expression. “If it’s Castle Corbenic and King Pellinore you’re worried
about, don’t be. My father wouldn’t dare attack us without hearing what we
have to—”
 “N-No,” she stammers, shaking her head. “It’s not th—it’s nothing. I’m
fine. Thank you, Percy.” She gives me a smile, but I know Guin too well. She
can’t hide the pain etched into the fiber of that smile.
What pains her? What madness is roiling through her mind? If only I knew, I would
pluck it out of existence. If it’s a person, I would punish them for hurting my girl.
She stays quiet, and I let her be. I can’t force it out of her.
Sighing, I snap the reins and click my tongue to get the horses moving
faster. Perhaps this is all becoming too much for her. The traveling, the worry, the bleak
odds stacked against us. Guinevere did not sign up for any of this when we bonded her with
the Oath of Devotion. She thought she was getting a life of unrestrained sex and worship
from five dubious men. And she is . . . but there’s more that goes along with it.
I can only hope it’s not this that ends up breaking her—not the weight of impending
catastrophe that dims my shining star.
“Almost there now,” Gawain rasps next to me.
I nod and purse my lips. Seeing Guinevere down and out has abruptly put
me in a sour mood. There’s also the impending meeting with my father I’m
not looking forward to. As long as I can handle myself better than Kay did with his
father, things should be all right.
Pellinore is old. Shit, he was old when I was born. Now he’s ancient. “Did
you know the Holy Grail was once housed in Castle Corbenic?” I say, apropos
of nothing, just trying to get Guin out of her dismal state.
She glances over, brow raised.
I nod sagely. “It’s true. Corbenic is called the Grail Castle. Or, it was, before
the Grail was taken.”
Guin gives me a tight smile. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s
humoring me.
I chuckle and shake my head. “Sorry. I know history isn’t the most exciting
topic. I’ll stop talk—”
“No,” she interjects, “tell me more, Percy. Please. Anything to get me out
of my own head.”
With my lips curving into a genuine grin, I say, “Pellinore is from a royal
dynastic bloodline whose duty was to guard the Holy Grail. My father failed,
of course, as the Grail was taken. He’s been hellbent on searching for it for
years. I believe it’s driven him to madness.”
“Is the, um, madness, what led to your siblings’ deaths?”
 I make a clicking sound, bobbing my head left and right. “In part. He sent
many of my siblings on daring, impossible quests, leading to many of their
deaths. All in the name of retrieving the Grail. Others died in various wars
over the years, most of them pointless. My sister Alyne died of neglect, of a
curable illness he couldn’t be bothered to worry about. And, of course,
Dindrane and I died when Pellinore ousted my mother from Listenoise. In his
eyes, we were never born in the first place.”
Her blink is wide-eyed. Probably shocked at all the information I’ve just
thrown at her. In hindsight, I realize it might not be the best plan to get her
out of her malaise. The story is gruesome, like most familial tales from Logres.
“Jesus, Percy . . .”
I scratch my scalp, wincing. “I know. Sorry, it’s not an uplifting account. He
wasn’t always like that, though.”
I’m not sure why I say that last part. I have no reason to defend him, or
make my father sound any less horrible than he is.
To our left, Arthur chuckles from his cart. He’s positioned on the right of
the bench, smiling in our direction while Kay leads the horses from the center.
With Gawain covering my peripheral, I wasn’t aware Arthur was close enough
to hear me wax poetic about my tragic family.
I give my liege a crooked grin. “Pellinore bested Arthur in a joust, back
when our king was but a whelp of a prince, and Pellinore was not an ancient
madman.”
Arthur’s laughter grows. He shakes his head in disbelief.
Guin leans forward, gawking at our king. “Is that true?”
“Sure is,” Arthur rumbles. “Bested me two out of three. I know, little one, I
was as shocked as you look now. I’ll admit, King Pellinore was a masterful
knight in his day. I invited him to join the Round Table in Uther’s court, and
he obliged us in a symbolic gesture. Once, I was friends with him.”
“Wow.”
“That was before . . . well, before he lost his way.” Arthur’s face grows
dour, the mirth gone from his eyes.
Guin asks, “What makes him so obsessed with the Grail? That he would
send so many sons and daughters to their deaths trying to retrieve it?”
I scratch my cheek. I’m too deep into the story to stop now, even if I’m
embarrassed about continuing. I was trying to simply perk Guin up, to make
her stop thinking horrid thoughts. Now she’s invested. “You’ll find it
ridiculous,” I say, choking back a laugh.
“Try me.” Her voice is deadpan.
“King Pellinore is consumed with . . . immortality.”
She jerks back in surprise.
“Attaining it, that is,” I add.
Guin’s brow bunches together. She’s not so sullen or sad anymore, it
appears, rather deep in thought in a different way. I much prefer this sharp,
cunning thing of beauty to the other version of her.
“It’s not so odd, is it?” she says after a few moments.
I pout. “Erm, well, it’s not possible, either.”
“I thought that’s what the Holy Grail is supposed to bestow?”
Running a hand through my hair, my face twists as I try to think of a way
to explain this. “It’s not so simple, snoop. The Grail can only be used by those
deemed worthy. My father was not. Otherwise, he’d have used it when it was
sitting in the treasury of Castle Corbenic for all those years.”
“Ah. That makes sense. That must be why Morgan le Fay wants me so
badly.” As she murmurs the words, something like fear crosses over her face.
Her eyes flash wide.
It’s odd, almost like she’s not saying everything. Or, that she didn’t mean to
speak those words aloud. A strange sensation settles over me. Is Guin . . . hiding
something from us?
“Like Merlin said, right?” she adds. Now it sounds like she’s trying to
convince me of something. To obfuscate her original train of thought.
“Morgan thinks I can wield the Grail, since I brought it here from my world.”
“Yes. Right.” My voice is clipped, my eyes searching hers suspiciously.
When I glance to my left, past Gawain, to Arthur, our eyes lock in a shared,
intuitive expression. She’s not saying everything.
We’ve learned to let Guinevere tell her secrets as they come, at her own
pace. I’d hoped we were beyond that, though, and there would be no secrets
among us anymore.
The blip of anxiety, the way she quickly spoke up after, leads me to believe
we’re not quite there yet.
“Anyway,” I say, “that’s what my father is after.”
She lets out a low hum and strokes her chin. “Maybe we can use that? His,
uh, lofty desire to use the Holy Grail for immortality.”
 “Understand, snoop, no one has ever used the Grail to achieve immortality.
At least not in my lifetime. It’s an impossible thing. Old gossip to spread
around the tavern tables when you’re playing cards with your drunken friends.”
“Okay, but Pellinore doesn’t know that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have this
obsession, right?”
Sure. Now it’s my turn to humor her. “What are you suggesting, my star?”
“I’m suggesting we try to convince Pellinore we can get him the Holy Grail,
in exchange for him calling off his alliance with Lot. Give us his army, we’ll
give him his dream.”
Glancing over at Arthur, my king gives me a little head-bob and an
impressed frown. “That’s . . . actually a pretty fucking good idea, snoop.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 27
Percival

“You still look more maiden than man,” my father scoffs.

He lounges on his throne, brittle and thin with age. His flaxen-white hair
runs long and dry over his shoulders to his chest, similar to mine but lacking
the vibrancy and health of my mane. King Pellinore is wrinkled, falling apart at
the seams. His face is gaunt, cheeks hollow, skin leathery where it was once
smooth. If this is what I have to look forward to when I grow elderly, I’d
rather die before I get to it.
He rests his hand on his lap, while the stump of his left hand is in plain
view. My father gained the moniker of the Maimed King after losing his hand
during a boar hunt. Many call that hunt and the loss of his hand a metaphor
for his incessant, futile quest for the Holy Grail.
“More maiden than man?” I echo, returning his scoff. “Who do I have to
thank for that?”
I circle the small table between us to stand before the King of Listenoise in
his gaudy robes that flow over his skeletal body like an oversized blanket. He
looks ridiculous. His barbs have no weight behind them anymore.
My bastard of a father is tired.
“When I was your age,” he says in a clicking, wheezy voice, “I looked twice
the knight you do. I was twice the knight you are.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
He leans forward, dewy eyes gleaming and narrowing. “Have you ever
bested your king in a joust, boy?”
A frown slices across my face. I haven’t beaten Arthur in a joust, because
I’ve never tried. Why would I, and potentially harm my liege who has given me
everything—a home, a brotherhood, love like a father, and Guinevere?
His laugh is followed by a cough as he leans back, proud of himself. “I
thought not.” He gives me a crooked grin. “I bet you’ve taken his cock in your
ass, though, eh? That’s something my maiden-fair progeny enjoys, yes?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not here to discuss my sexual
preferences with you, old man.”
“You will call me”—he coughs into the right arm of his robe—“by my title
when you speak to me in my house!”
“Then you will call me by mine, King Pellinore.”
“I’ll do no such thing. You may be a Knight of the Round Table, but—”
“Not that title, Father. The one you spent my whole life regretting,
forgetting, and eradicating.” My eyes pierce blue daggers into his graying orbs.
“Son.”
He harrumphs, defiant as ever. “You’re no son of mine. You never were.
You’re a mistake.”
“I’m also the last heir to the Listenoise throne, whether you like it or not.”
His mouth quirks, roaming his tongue around the roof of it. “Why have
you come here? After years of blissful nonexistence in my court?” There’s a
challenge in his voice, and I’m desperate to rise up to it. “You’re lucky I’m
seeing you at all. King Mordred would pay a pretty penny for—”
“King Ector said the same thing to Sir Kay, Father. And now he’s dead.”
Pellinore’s eyebrows jump. “Lies.”
I give him a decisive nod, pleased to finally shock him. “King Kay rules the
realm of Sauvage now, and with it the entire forest covering the center of this
continent. You would do well to join our ranks . . . my king.”
I haven’t started off well with my father, likely because I hate him and hate
what he’s trying to scheme using my sister. At some point, I need to placate
the old fool. Begin anew, so we can forge some kind of uneasy alliance to
benefit us both.
My father’s nostrils flare. “Then the barbarian becomes the very usurper he
claims to be fighting against. That’s rich, Percival.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. He’s not wrong.
After studying his pinched, weathered face, I sigh and take a seat on a pew
below his throne. I’ve afforded him the physical position of dominance, which
I know is something he cherishes. “Look, Father, we got started off on the
wrong foot. We haven’t seen each other in many years—”
“I hope it’s many more after this unpleasant reunion.”
“You know the stakes here as well as anyone. King Arthur plans to fight for
his throne. We want you on our side.”
 “Cards on the table, eh?” He barks a laugh, clearly thinking me weak for
giving in before we’ve even reached the point of negotiating. “Lot has already
given me an offer. We will join Mordred together and quash this little counter-
rebellion of yours. You would do well to fall in line with the other kings. Or
will you simply kill your way to your perceived justice, son?” He sneers the last
word.
My father might be old, but he’s not an idiot. He’s foolhardy when it comes
to the Grail, yet his mind is still sharp. I can see him calculating his options
while he analyzes me. Always an opportunist, this one.
I say, “I have not come with empty hands.”
“Fine.” He settles into his seat, leaning back, getting comfortable. His
hands spread out toward me. “Tell me what you have to offer for the army of
Listenoise to back your coup.”
“I will help you use the Holy Grail once Mordred and Morgan le Fay are
defeated.” A smile tilts my lips. “Imagine it, Father. The thing you’ve always
dreamed of. In your hands, at last. Granting you the immortality you seek.”
He studies me for a beat longer, expressionless—
Then he bursts out laughing. So hard, he bends forward and trembles with
coughs. When he’s composed himself, his smile is sinister. “Morgan le Fay has
already promised me the same. And she actually has the damn thing! Silly boy.
Next?” He swipes his hand at me in utter contempt.
Shit. I hadn’t counted on that response. How can I get him to believe Morgan is
lying to him, but I’m not? She’s preying on his senile sensibilities and futile dreams, and I’m
doing the same thing.
I don’t know how to make myself look better, except—
“Yes, but I have the person who is able to wield it.”
I regret the words as soon they pass through my lips, and I try to hide the
regret from my face.
His head tilts curiously. “Oh?”
Am I about to spill a secret that will only put snoop in more danger? I fold my lips
into my mouth. When my lips part, I quickly clamp them shit. No, I think. I
can’t put Guinevere on a pedestal like that, for the sake of convincing my father to help us. I
won’t stoop to the disgusting level of opportunism he does. Even for a fake promise I never
intend on keeping.
I stand from the pew. “I’m your last remaining heir, Father. You should
help us because it’s the right thing to do.”
 He flaps his hand at me, annoyed. “No, no, what were you going to say—
possessing someone who can wield the Grail? Do you speak of Merlin? A
witch, perhaps?”
Good, then he doesn’t know of Guinevere’s power.
“You don’t deserve her,” I say simply. “None of us do.”
“Then you’ll never see my army.”
“And you’ll never see immortality,” I spit. When I approach the steps
leading up to his throne, the guards in the back of the room clank with
movement.
I put my hands up and back off. “Your sons and daughters are dead,
Father.” I can’t stop the anger from roaring inside me. All the pent-up years of
hate and neglect from this man—the man who likely killed the stepfather who
raised me as his own; Pellinore’s own officer in his court, murdered because he
knew my illegitimate parentage. He knew of my mother’s liaison with the king,
and had to be silenced. “I am one of only two living descendants of the
Listenoise royal bloodline. Your two least favorite children, cast aside
together.” I tap my chin in faux curiosity. “Say, I wonder if there’s a
connection there? The ten children before us, who stayed by your side and
appeased your every whim? Dead, to a man. The two who escaped your
clutches? Alive and well.”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t seem enraged, even though I’m trying my
hardest to wound him. “If you weren’t so pretty, Percival, I might bring you up
on charges of treason for your words. As it stands? Your outburst is simply
sad. The emotional vomiting of a frail girl who can’t have her way.”
I grit my teeth. Now I feel like waging war. “What is your plan with
Dindrane, you old fucker? Just what are you getting my sister into?”
His brow furrows, as if he hadn’t even thought about his remaining
daughter in ages. The abrupt change in topic baffles him. “Her? Pah! She
means nothing. I might as well make use of her as a contingency plan in case
my Grail quest ultimately proves fruitless. Not that I’m saying it will.”
He refuses to believe he can fail his quest, even though he’s knocking on
death’s door as we speak. Time is running out for him.
I dig through his words, unpacking it quickly in my spinning mind. “So you
plan to offload her to your nemesis? To let King Lot have his way with her?”
He raises his chin haughtily. “It is high time the neighboring kingdoms of
Listenoise and Leudonia found peace. Common ground. Dindrane can
provide me heirs that, let’s be honest, you would never be capable of. And
since I’m having problems of my own . . .” He trails off, clearly not meaning
to say that last part.
Alarm claws at my belly. Having problems of his own? With whom? His wife is
long dead. If not her, then who else . . .
Terror and sickness grips me.
No. Is he trying to say what I think he’s saying?
I can’t reconcile what I think he’s implying, so I breeze past it. “Do not
make Dindrane collateral damage for your ambitions, Father. She’s done
nothing to deserve this. King Lot already has a wife, and heirs.”
“And he’s losing them by the day, it would seem. We’re similar in that.”
Pellinore gingerly stands from his throne. “I grow tired of this, son. You’ve
made your case and failed. You do not belong here. You do not understand the
customs of Listenoise, because you were never of Listenoise. You were a blot
on my conscience and bearing.”
“So you’ve said, over and over again.”
He grips the armrest of his throne, the protruding knuckles of his one
hand white as marble. His arm trembles from the effort. “Dindrane will
provide heirs for both our kingdoms, don’t you see? She can be the key to a
long-lasting union between us, because her sons will have the blood of both
Leudonia and Listenoise royalty coursing through them. I will not waver from
this decision!”
His words echo off the high vaulted ceiling of his throne room. There it is,
then. Somewhere along the way, my father has recognized the truth of his
pointless quest for the Holy Grail, and shifted focus to his own legacy.
The legacy of a hateful, dying old man.
Same story as it ever was.
The fight goes out of me like a boat set adrift in the middle of the ocean.
My sails no longer gather wind, and I fear for the future of the place I once
called home.
I’m so grateful I no longer call it that.
My father is nearly frothing with anger now. He only stood so he could
chastise me and stare down his beaked nose at me. I know it came with
difficulty.
There’s no coming back from this. We’re simply too far at odds. “I’m
saddened by your stubbornness, Father,” I say, bowing my head. “I was hoping
we might one day reconcile our differences, and make Listenoise a place worth
living. Instead, you would give our kingdom to a warlord like King Lot, and a
traitor like Mordred. I’m ashamed of you.”
“Leave my court at once, whelp. Don’t return here.”
“Gladly, King Pellinore.”
With that, I give him a curt bow, turn, and march out of his throne room,
with defeat rattling my bones.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 28
Guinevere

While Percival speaks with his father in the throne room, the rest of us wait
outside in the hall, surrounded by stern-looking guards with spears and silver
armor. They look like an Elvish army from Lord of the Rings. I have to admit
they strike formidable stances—stoic, silent, deadly. It would be nice to have
them on our side.
When we hear muffled yelling coming from the room, my hope dwindles.
We’ve been on pins and needles, none of us liking the idea of separating
Percival alone with his father. That was the only way he was going to get in to
see King Pellinore, so Arthur begrudgingly allowed it.
Gawain paces near the back of the circular hall. Kay is propped against a
pillar. Arthur and Lancelot are busy in low conversation off to the side.
I walk over to the latter duo, wringing my hands. When the two knights
glance over with peculiar expressions, I shove my hands behind my back so I
don’t look nervous. “Say, Lance, I was wondering.” I shuffle my feet, staring at
the marble floor. “Where are you from?”
His scarred eyebrow raises a fraction higher. “That’s an odd question, given
our current situation, fireheart.”
“Sorry,” I reply with a quick smile. I feel so meek probing him like this. “I
guess all this familial infighting and traveling to the kingdoms of my knights’
parents has piqued my curiosity,” I lie.
There’s much more on my mind than simple “familial infighting.” Has been
all day. Percival was the first to notice. I haven’t been able to get the hazy
dreamlike meeting with Merlin out of my head. The dreamspeaking I
somehow initiated with him, stealing one of his memories.
Not only did it freak me out I was able to even do that—and his
subsequent fearful reaction at my “powers” becoming active, whatever the hell
those might be—but the dream’s contents have made me spiral. I want to get
to the bottom of what I learned from the vision, regarding Merlin, the Lady
of the Lake, and a certain scarred, demon-shifting knight of mine.
“I was born to King Ban of Benoic,” Lancelot says after some silence.
I slant my head. My confusion is real. Ban of Benoic? I recognize the name, not
the person. I try to recall what I’ve heard. He was absent from the Meeting of Kings,
because he feared the tyrant King Claudas of Berry would encroach on his lands. King Bors,
Ban’s ally, told us that.
Other than that, Ban hasn’t been a big player in anything I’m aware of. He
seems like . . . well, an ordinary king in a faraway kingdom. Just another name.
“Oh,” I say, clearing my throat and nodding. “Cool.”
When I start to meander away, Lancelot’s voice is low, almost threatening.
“Yes, Guin. Cool.”
He’s onto me. He knows something is amiss, that I wasn’t simply asking out of
curiosity. My heartbeat quickens as I show him my back, so he can’t see the
sheen of sweat on my upper lip.
His quick answer solidifies what I already knew to be true: King Ban is not
Lancelot’s father, similar to how King Lot is not Mordred’s father. There’s so
much damn lying going on behind closed doors in this world, all for the sake
of simplifying the kings’ ascension and heritage.
Why do I have to be the holder of these secrets? This shit is starting to weigh me
down. It’s hard to focus on raising an army and gaining allies and loving my
men when I’m floundering to juggle everything I know, without accidentally
blurting out the truths and breaking the world.
In this quiet moment, I’m tempted to spill everything. To tell Lancelot,
“Sorry, man, you’re actually a demon-spawn born from Merlin, who, by the
way, is also apparently a demon. Not a big surprise, right, given your wings and
stuff ? Oh, and you’re also half-fairy.”
I want to scream at Arthur, “Mordred is your son, dude! We need to learn
to unite with him, not fight him!”
The thick double-doors to the throne room burst open and Percival storms
out with a tight expression screwing up his beautiful face. It steals everyone’s
attention, making my need to unburden myself vanish in the blink of an eye.
Everyone looks to him.
“Let’s go,” he grumbles, striding past us. “We’ll find no assistance here.”
“Damn,” Arthur hisses, hurrying to keep pace with Percival. Their strides
are long, and I have no fucking chance, so I stay back with Gawain and Kay,
close enough to listen, while Lancelot takes the rear.
I feel Lancelot’s eyes boring into my backside. And I don’t think he’s
watching my ass sashay because he wants to mount me. I think he’s analyzing
me.
I should have never asked him anything.
“Where shall we go?” Arthur asks.
Percival says nothing, probably preferring to speak once we’re out of
earshot of Pellinore’s men.
We round the corner of the pristine hall, come down another one, and
enter the lush foyer of Castle Corbenic. I can see why it once held the Holy
Grail. The place is beautiful. It sits on the coast of northeast Logres,
overlooking an island with another castle atop it, and crystal waters that stretch
as far as the eye can see. The city surrounding Corbenic is filled with gleaming
white buildings and upscale townsfolk.
If I had first arrived here, rather than Camelot, I would have never thought
there were any problems ravaging this country. This place is a picturesque
medieval city full of splendor, as if it was plucked out of Renaissance times
rather than the Dark Ages.
Once we’re outside the castle gates, headed away from the gorgeous palace,
we make our way over a stone bridge, past a slow-moving carriage, and cross
over a lazy river that runs through the city.
“Percival, stop,” Arthur says at the end of the bridge, grabbing his arm.
“We can’t simply flee every issue at the first sign of adversity. Tell us what
happened, so we can gauge our next plan of action.”
Percy slides a palm over his face. He looks tired and pissed, which are both
rare expressions for the angelic knight who looks like he belongs in this pretty
place more than anywhere else.
He glances away from Arthur, off the bridge to the high-banked river.
“Morgan le Fay has already promised Pellinore use of the Holy Grail for
lending his army to her. That idea is out for us, even if he’s a fool to believe
Morgan would ever make good on such a promise.”
Yeah, Pellinore sounds like he’s getting conned big time.
“Fine,” Arthur says. “What else?”
“Rhys was right,” Percy answers with a heavy sigh. “He plans to whore
Princess Dindrane out to King Lot, so she’ll birth heirs for them both.”
 “It would create a strong alliance,” Lancelot says, stroking a scar near his
chin.
“Yes. And they would both be in Mordred’s corner.”
“If Listenoise and Leudonia are allied against us,” Arthur says, “we are
fucked.”
“I know.” Percival crosses his arms. “Which is why we need to make haste
to Leudonia to try and find my sister.”
“She’s likely heavily guarded by Listenoise soldiers, to make sure her
delivery goes unimpeded.”
My head swivels from man to man. I hate the idea of another woman being
used as a tool for these kings’ power struggles. When is it enough?
I can tell there’s something else bothering Percy. I know him well enough to
sense the agitation squeezing his lips and scrunching his brow. I can also sense
he doesn’t want to talk about it here, in front of his brothers-in-arms.
I’m not the only one holding a secret. What did Pellinore tell you that makes you clam
up like this, my love?
“Let us ride with haste to King Lot, then,” Arthur says, “to try and cut her
off at the pass. Leapfrog Princess Dindrane and go right to the source of her
troubles.” The king puts a reassuring hand on Percival’s shoulder. “We knew
this was always a possibility, brother. We can’t let it deter us from our plans. It’s
paramount we simply execute the next phase.”
Percival nods. I know his heart isn’t in it. He’s defeated, shoulders slumped.
Then his icy-blue eyes lift and find me. “Snoop, what do you think?”
I blink a few times in surprise. Talk about leapfrogging—over his king and
everything. “I, uh . . .” I don’t want to step on any toes.
Arthur, to his credit, isn’t glaring daggers at me. He’s waiting for my
response, which gives me confidence to answer without fear of retribution.
Even if I sound stupid.
“Would it be possible to locate your sister before she gets to Leudonia?”
“Leudonia is only two days away by horse,” Arthur says. “If she’s already en
route, time is not on our side.”
“Right. Okay.” I rub the back of my neck, urging my brain to come up with
something. “I just think it’s in our best interest to get her opinion on all this.
Like, what if we can whisk her away before she reaches the kingdom? The
exchange can never happen if they can’t find her.”
Arthur’s lips curl. “I like the way you think, little girl.”
 My cheeks flame and I give him a coy smile, heat blooming in my belly.
With this beautiful scenery, I’d like nothing more than to get bent over the
curved arch of this stone bridge and let my guys have at me while we overlook
the glimmering river below.
Alas, time is of the essence, as we’ve made clear, and all this traveling and
scheming has put a hold on sexy times.
“This sounds like a reasonable idea,” Lancelot says, leaning against the
corner of the bridge’s guard rail with his arms folded, “but will it do anything
to stop the alliance? It sounds like Pellinore is already helping Morgan,
regardless of the exchange, because of the Holy Grail farce.”
“At the very least,” Gawain butts in, “we can try to stop my father from
joining King Pellinore, by making a mess of this hostage negotiation. I agree
with the little lark.”
“As do I,” Kay says in his low grunting voice.
That means there are four of us in agreement: Arthur, Gawain, Kay, me.
Not that Lancelot and Percival aren’t, but once we’re scanning each other’s
faces, it’s clear the decision has been reached. We’ve created a democratic
system, and I love it. With two kings in our group now, no one acts like they’re
superior to anyone else. We’re equals, as the Round Table always intended it to
be. Egos left at the door.
“All right,” I say with a fierce smile, “let’s go rescue a princess, guys.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 29
Guinevere

Over the next two hours, we do some sleuthing through the city. Percival stops
off at shopkeepers’ businesses he recognizes, and disappears into a couple
folk’s houses. He tries to get any and all information he can on Dindrane, since
she isn’t anywhere in the city.
It’s at the pubs, of course, that we gather our best intel. We learn Dindrane
was staying on Medcaut, the island just off the northeast coast, surrounded by
shoals and craggy sands. A castle and monastery sit there. The locals at the
tavern believe she was being kept there so King Pellinore could keep a close
eye on her. She might be illegitimate, like Percy, but she’s still important to
Pellinore’s future. She’s a bartering tool.
A few days ago, she vanished from Medcaut.
“We could speculate all day about where she went,” Percival tells us as we
make our way to the stables to gather our horses and buggies. “I think it’s safe
to say she was removed so this barter with Lot could take place.”
“She might have escaped, fearing for her life,” I say, rather unhelpfully, I
realize, when Percy scowls at me.
We wheel our carts out of the city near sundown. As we head west, the
flaming ball of the sun sets behind mountains. The green countryside and
sloping hills rise up around us, and we’re back in deceptively charming
territory.
“What is this?” Arthur grumbles.
I follow his squinting eyes ahead to a figure standing in the middle of the
road. He’s twirling a staff in his hands.
As we get closer, the cherubic face comes into focus, and the pink cheeks
widen with a smile. “Thought I might find you along this road,” Merlin calls
out.
 Arthur frowns at him. It’s the first time he’s seen the young, ancient wizard
in months. His reaction is similar to mine from earlier this morning—
suspicious and closed-off.
“Merlin, what are you doing here?”
The wizard glides his hand over the flank of one of the horses. “Well met
to you too, ass. I’m here to lead you where you need to go.”
“When you and your knights are ready, I’ll find you to lead you onward.” What he
said when he presumably put a sleep spell on my knights and met with me
around the campfire.
“How did you find us?” Lancelot snaps.
He chuckles that high, boyish sound. “It doesn’t take the Keeper of
Memories to know your meeting in Listenoise was not going to end well.”
I glare at him. I have no doubt magic is involved—and the fact he can
follow us in his dreams.
Percival says, “Ended well enough for Kay and Sauvage.”
“Did it?” Merlin asks, voice peaking. “He became king, but lost a father. I’d
say it was a wash. Arthur can relate.”
Arthur says, “You know what’s been going on.”
“Of course I do, dear boy.”
It’s so funny hearing those words come out of a boy who looks like he’s
thirteen, when Arthur’s beard is starting to gray and he looks like he could
easily be Merlin’s father, if not grandfather.
“Not every situation is identical, my friends,” Merlin adds, and then spins
around and starts walking off the road, south. “They all come with their own
baggage.”
I’m sure you know all about baggage, wizard.
We don’t bother arguing with Merlin. He talks in riddles most the time, and
if he can lead us somewhere no one else can, then why not? It’s at least worth
checking out.
We roll our way into the bushy forest southwest of Castle Corbenic. It’s a
detour, yet we don’t complain.
After an hour passes traveling in his wake, Arthur asks, “Where are you
taking us, wizard?”
Merlin glances over his shoulder, grinning like a fool. “You’ll see.”
We park the carts, push through the thick foliage, step over a big log that’s
acting as a natural bridge over a narrow river, and go deeper into the woods.
We get to a long wall that stretches northeast to southwest, as far as the eye
can see. It’s a stacked stone wall about ten feet high, and Merlin skirts
alongside it.
“The Vallum, we call it,” Merlin tells me, caressing its stony edifice. “Built
ages ago by Arthur’s ancestors. The wall stretches across the entire bottleneck
of this country.”
I furrow my brow. What an odd place to build a barrier, going through an overgrown
forest and out of it in both directions.
Then I remember a geography lesson from school. Hadrian’s Wall, I think.
It’s in the right place to be the legendary wall from my world that drags over
seventy miles and used to separate England and Scotland.
When we get to a certain clearing, I hear an unnatural bird call. Then
another. The trees teem with rustling limbs.
I look up and see wooden rope walkways curling around thick trunks,
extending out from the thickest canopies. It’s a network system of bridges off
the forest floor, with treehouses and little lodgings in the branches.
My eyes bulge. “Whoa.”
Merlin smiles. “An entire ecosystem of humans living in secrecy in the
woods. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
This seems much more fantastical than your typical medieval fare. This is
something straight out of FernGully.
I can’t stop gawking overhead.
“Watch out,” Merlin says as people descend from the rope ladders. “If
you’re not careful, your peeled eyes will get stuck that way.” He chuckles at his
little joke.
The people in this treetop village look primitive, with loincloths and spears.
Their beautiful brown skin helps them camouflage into the scenery and trees.
As the first ten warriors emerge into the clearing, they watch us with skeptical
eyes, as if wondering if we’re invaders.
Then I hear Percival gasp. “Din!”
A gorgeous girl with fair skin and tawny hair walks out from behind a tree
and smiles at Percival. He winds his way through the crowd and takes her into
a fierce hug.
Arthur leads us over to them, nodding respectfully to the native people we
pass.
 Princess Dindrane looks nearly identical to Percival. She’s tall, with the
same soft features of his face, the thin almost-invisible eyebrows, the pointed
chin, the sapphire-blue eyes. She wears a simple white gown that makes her
nearly translucent in the moonlight.
Dindrane reminds me of the Lady of the Lake’s ethereal beauty. She wears
her blonde hair long, in waves of curls billowing down her back—the curliness
being the only difference I notice between her and her brother.
I recognize her face from Merlin’s first dream. She’s easily twenty years
older than she was in that memory.
“Brother, it’s so good to see you.” Her voice is soft and tinted with worry.
For some reason I feel guilty just listening to her speak.
“We were worried you’d already be in Leudonia,” Percy says, taking her to
arm’s length. He looks at her from head to toe. “I’m so glad we found you
first.”
She smiles timidly, very unlike the teasing, sassy girl from the dream who
tried to get Percy in trouble with their mom for playing his lute. No, this
woman seems . . . beaten down. Frail. Like the fight has gone out of her. It
hurts to see, knowing what I know of her past personality.
Percy sweeps his hand at us, introducing the knights and me at the end.
“This is my star, Din. Her name is Guinevere, and I love her. We all do.”
Dindrane scans the other guys’ faces. Her smile becomes a bit more
mischievous. “Lucky girl.”
There she is. I blush and chuckle. “You could say that.” I give a little curtsy.
“Hi, Princess Dindrane, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She returns the curtsy. “And you, Princess Guinevere.”
My smile widens. “Oh, I’m no princess.”
“If you’re grouped with the likes of King Arthur and Sir Lancelot, ma’am,
you certainly are.”
My cheeks flame harder. I don’t know what to say to that. Princess Guin does
have a nice ring to it.
The villagers stare at us. When Percival takes Dindrane to the side of a tree,
the villagers wander off, noticing and respecting their privacy. So far, no one
has spoken to us. Just as noteworthy, no one has scolded or attacked us.
“What are you doing here, Dinny?” Percy asks. He shoots her a wry smile.
“Away from your creature comforts.”
“I’m hiding, Percy, to avoid Father’s incessant gaze.”
 My heart blooms. She also calls him Percy, without knowing it’s the nickname I’ve
made for him. I’m not sure why it makes me feel so happy to hear that—why it
fills me with joy and validation. Like Dindrane is a kindred spirit.
“I’ve spoken with him.” Percival’s voice is dire, spiteful. “I know he plans to
send you off to King Lot, like a head of cattle.” He flares his nostrils. “We
won’t let it happen, sister. I promise.”
Her brow forms a bump in the middle, confusion spreading across her soft
features. “What? No, that’s not why I’m . . . you don’t understand, brother.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“I want to go to King Lot, Percy.”
I inhale sharply. Even Arthur lets out a small sound.
“Lot is not a bad man,” she continues, noticing the befuddlement on
Percival’s face. “I will do anything to get away from Listenoise and our father.
I’m hiding here so I can go on my own terms, without Father’s guards
watching over me like I’m treasure to be lorded after.”
Percival’s mouth opens and closes. He blinks a few times, clearly trying to
unpack everything she’s just said.
Good Lord, I think. She’s willing to become King Lot’s mistress and heir-producer just
to get away from her dad? This poor girl.
Surely it can’t be love . . . can it?
I mean, I’ve heard stranger things. Dindrane is probably in her mid-
twenties, while King Lot, as far as I can remember, is more than twice her age.
The age gap is not such an odd thing in itself, but there’s the question of Lot
being married already.
Percival picks up on my thought and runs with it. “Din, you can’t be
serious.” His voice is flat, accusing, and I don’t like it. “King Lot is married to
Queen Anna. You—what are you trying to do? Surely you can’t . . .” He trails
off, shakes his head, and repeats himself. “What are you trying to do?”
Dindrane’s hands ball into fists. Her calm, soft face hardens into an
expression that reminds me of that firebrand little girl. “How can you not
understand, Percy? You share your love for this woman with four other men.
Is it so different for Lot to share his love with two women?”
Percival grimaces and rubs his temples. “It’s vastly different, sister. We
bound ourselves to Guinevere with an oath. She arrived in Camelot
unburdened by a husband or wife. Essentially—and I’m sorry to put it this
way, Guin—she was available. King Lot? He has a wife who has given him
many children. Heirs to his throne. One of those heirs is with us right now.”
He motions behind him to Gawain.
I don’t like the lecture Percy gives his sister, but I’m not about to butt in. As
much as it sucks, Percy makes good points. I feel for Dindrane. I really do.
Making up for having a terrible father by slutting it up with his nemesis,
however, does not sound like a recipe for success.
Percy asks, “Does Queen Anna know about this clandestine affair you’re
planning? This war you plan to wage on her sovereignty?”
Dindrane fidgets in front of her belly, bowing her head in shame. “No,”
she squeaks. Then the fight comes back to her, pulsing out of her like a
physical aura. Scrunching her face, she chides Percival. “You would support
our father’s treatment of me, then?”
“Of course not!” he cries, aghast. “I just don’t want to see my sister
become a breeding mare for an enemy king, out of a false sense of love!”
A few of the villagers’ eyes veer over to us.
I bite my lip nervously.
Through no fault of her own, Dindrane has put us in a predicament. We
thought if we could “head her off at the pass,” our problems would be solved.
Possibly. At least stopping the affair would put Lot’s alliance with Pellinore on
rocky ground.
We never expected Dindrane to want to go to Lot. To basically sell herself
to the highest bidder to get away from her father. Just what the fuck did Pellinore
do to her?
I think back on Percival’s expression earlier in the castle, when he was
clearly hiding something. The first thing that comes to me—smacking me in
the chest like a thrown brick—is the worst of all. I hiss reflexively, and my
gaze flies up to Princess Dindrane.
Tears well in the corners of her eyes, close to falling. She snarls in
desperation at Percival, taking her sorrow and anger out on him. “You don’t
know what Father has done to me, Percival. What he’s tried to do to me, but
can’t, because he’s a fucking impotent cur!” The tears spill down her cheeks.
Next to me, Arthur reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing my palm. It
helps keep me grounded, so I don’t start sobbing, too.
Dindrane’s hands fly up in frustration. Her voice goes hysterical. More eyes
than ever are looking at us from the trees, except they’re watching Dindrane
with pity.
 “All in the name of continuing the royal Listenoise bloodline. The
pureblooded line, Percy!” she shrieks.
Percival stumbles when she advances. “Please, Din—”
“Mother is dead, brother. Our sisters are dead. Who do you think Father
turned to when there was no one else?!”
Off to the side, Merlin mutters, “You poor, poor thing.”
Dindrane looks at the youngster like she’s appalled, her mouth falling open.
As if wondering how a boy could even understand what she’s talking about.
Percival is stunned silent, his face an abhorred mask. Dindrane’s shoulders
rise and fall rapidly, chest thumping with shallow breaths. She’s close to
hyperventilating.
Bile rises in my throat. I think I’m going to be sick.
Arthur takes me in his arms, intuitively sensing what’s happening to me,
and hugs me tight. I tuck my head into his chest.
“I’ll kill him,” Percival growls at last. He sounds like Gawain, his voice low,
thick, brooding.
“No,” Dindrane sobs, putting a hand on his forearm. “There’s been too
much death in this family. Don’t you see? I just want out.” With a firm shake of
her head, she adds, “Besides, how would you get in to see him after he kicked
you out of his court?”
I’m in agreement with Percival—ready to turn this train around and
slaughter King Pellinore right now. Dindrane makes a good point, too. How the
fuck would we get to him? We’ve blown our one opportunity when Percy could have pulled a
Kay and smashed his old wrinkly head against a wall or something.
The anger inside me is so bright it’s going to consume me. Our dilemma is
so, so much worse now. Before, I thought Din’s desire to leave was the typical
fare: mean father, so she wants to separate and cut him off. I didn’t know she
was dealing with such unspeakable, awful things.
What makes it worse, it puts us in a precarious position. We need to stop
Dindrane’s alignment with King Lot in order to wreck Lot’s alliance with
Pellinore and hurt Mordred’s army.
How the fuck are we supposed to do that now, if we have any kind of a
conscience? I . . . don’t know what to do.
Glancing up at Arthur with my eyes big and scared, I can tell he’s at a rare
loss, too. We’re at a fucked-up crossroads, and there doesn’t seem to be any
way to win.
 I try to think outside the box. Think away from Listenoise, Pellinore,
Dindrane, and Mordred.
The one person giving Dindrane hope is King Lot. He’s also the one we
need to convince, most of all, to join us. Or at least to hold his army from
Mordred.
We need to go to the source, just like we had planned. We need to speak with Lot,
wholeheartedly, and get him to change his mind—if not about Dindrane, then at least about
Morgan le Fay and Mordred.
Maybe there’s a way for Lot to keep Dindrane and backstab Pellinore? God knows if
anyone deserves it, it’s that evil fucker.
But then there’s Queen Anna to worry about!
I put my palm to my forehead and feel pulsating behind my temples.
Goddamn, I’m getting a headache.
“We’ll take you with us,” Percival abruptly says. I can tell he’s not thinking
straight, but I don’t disagree with that plan, either.
He turns around to us, imploring with his sad eyes, and earns silent nods
from everyone. Then he faces Dindrane. “You’ll come with us, sister. We’ll
help you find a man worthy of your love. Away from all the madness of these
kingdoms. Please, Din—”
“It’s too late, Percy.” Her voice is raspy and strained. “King Lot’s men
arrive tomorrow morning, to escort me to Leudonia.”
Percival bares his teeth, seething, and spins away from her. He paces back
and forth. “You refuse Father’s escort, so he can’t watch your every move, but
allow Lot to play the same hand? What happened to you going to Leudonia on
your terms?”
“These are my terms, brother.” She sniffles. Her affect is flat, the tears
drying, burning lines down her cheeks. “I love King Lot, and I’m going to
have his children.”
Dead silence. Not even the trees rustle.
“Then we’re coming with you,” I blurt out of nowhere.
I earn a few skeptical glances from my guys.
But Avalon save anyone who tries to fight me on this.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 30
Guinevere

Dindrane talks with the local forest dwellers and gets the okay from them to
let us sleep here for the night. Our plan is to act as Dindrane’s personal guard
tomorrow, when Lot’s soldiers arrive. We’re sure they might recognize Gawain,
if not King Arthur. We’re hoping to downplay who we are, at least until we’re
inside the gates of Castle Rock, Leudonia.
Dindrane brings us into the trees via rope ladders, takes us across the
flimsy, bendable network of walkways, and over to a small compound of tiny
dwellings off to the side of the village. I assume the cute treehouses are for
visitors. Sadly, each tiny lodging only has enough room for one person, so we
get individual houses.
When I lay my head down on the hay bale I call a bed, I stare up at the
huge moon out the tiny window. I’ve been camping before, but this is next
level. I’m high up in the trees, literally staying in a miniature wooden enclosure
like I’m Jane Porter in Tarzan, or a Lost Boy in Peter Pan.
This might be the weirdest—and most quaint—situation I’ve found myself
in since coming to Logres. Certainly the most fairytale-like. The trilling of
insects and whirring of rustling branches and leaves sound so close, they
might be inside my hut.
I’m hard-pressed to sleep because I can’t stop thinking about Dindrane’s
predicament. It’s crazy to me that she and King Pellinore both want the same
thing. They just have wildly different ideas of how to obtain it.
Pellinore sees his daughter as a tool to ensure a legacy for his bloodline,
longevity for his kingdom, and an alliance with his neighbor. Dindrane sees
herself as a star-struck lover to a king who already has a queen. The children
that might follow, the alliance the bond might bring to Listenoise and
Leudonia, is all secondary.
 I toss in bed, unable to stop myself from future tripping. We can’t know
what’s going to happen, or what we can do, until we get to Leudonia. I know
that. It doesn’t make this situation any easier to stomach.
Dindrane reminds me of an amalgamation of Iseult and Lady Mary. When
I first met the fiery Hibernian princess, Iseult was being brought by slavers to
be sold. Before Tristan rescued her, she was King Mark of Kernow’s woman,
and the key to King Anguish of Hibernia’s trade routes with southern Logres.
Mary, conversely, had been dealt a shitty hand from the get-go. A servant
herself, she became King Ector’s breeding stock after Ector killed his wife. She
bore him two daughters—which he hated her for, since they weren’t boys—
and beat her regularly.
Princess Dindrane has that to look forward to. I can only hope she isn’t
going from one broken, abusive home, to another. That her arrival at
Leudonia’s court isn’t going to start a shit-storm of epic proportions, and end
up creating a civil war between King Lot loyalists and Queen Anna loyalists.
With a heavy sigh, I curl into a fetal position. There’s no winning here. Either
Dindrane gets what she wants and has to look over her shoulder for a dagger from the Queen
of Leudonia her whole life, or she returns to Listenoise and becomes a toy for her father.
Ugh, how fucking disgusting.
The small door to my hut creaks open, inches from my feet. I flop onto my
back and peer down my body.
Percival stands there like a Greek sculpture—a marvelous statue carved
from marble. He takes me in, his blue eyes shining through his silhouette. The
moonlight highlights every line of his frame from behind, in a striking way
that makes my mouth fall open.
He’s naked. The gorgeous physique and planes of his slender, corded body
are in direct contrast to the long, heavy cock hanging between his thighs.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmur. “Get me away from all this, Percy.” Get me out
of my freaking head.
He understands me without me needing to explain. With a nod, he takes a
step inside my tiny room. “I need you, snoop.” His voice is low and thick. Is
that desire, or sadness? Either way, he’s begging me to save him.
“We’re in the same boat, my love.”
“Let me ruin you,” he says. “Let me fuck you like the first time I met you.
Please. Just you and me.”
 I nod fervently, swallowing hard over a lump in my throat. “I was hoping
you’d come.” I scoot down on the cot, so my legs shoot between his. He
stands at the foot of my bed. His cock twitches to life, thickening by the
second.
I smile at the sight of it. “Now say less and bring that beautiful cock over
here.”
Percival flares his nostrils and grips his dick, stroking it as it grows. With his
other hand, he reaches between my thighs and parts my legs. I’m already
bringing my pants down, wiggling out of them.
Percy rips them off with a quickness, and I let out a small yelp. He crawls
over me, his taller body engulfing mine. “I’ve waited so long to have you alone,
all to myself, snoop.”
I cradle his smooth cheek with my palm. His skin is warm, flushed, his
breath like the forest breeze itself. His long hair tumbles around us and tickles
my face. I can feel his cock throbbing against my middle, smearing wetness
along my belly.
His words are romantic, but I’m not feeling any type of romance right now.
I’m feeling needy. Feral. My pussy aches from inattention, and that long, hot
firebrand he calls a cock is the only thing that can make me feel better.
I grin at him, bringing his face down to kiss me. Our tongues mingle. My
free hand goes between us and palms the head of his dick. I run my thumb
over the slit and the engorged ridge.
He grunts in my mouth and devours my tongue, mouth widening to turn
our kiss sloppy and wet. His hand roams and finds its way between my warm
thighs. I part my legs, giving him easy access, and he slips two fingers inside.
His thumb runs circles over my clit while he fingers me, and when I moan in
his mouth, he swallows it on a sharp exhale.
I pull my face back and my grin widens. His eyes are half-lidded, already
lost in the throes of lust. “Remember when you shoved your face between my
legs after knowing me for all of five minutes?”
A smile creeps along his gorgeous features. “I’ve never been able to stop
myself from feasting on your delicious pussy, Guin. You know that. I’m
obsessed. All I ever want to do is worship you.”
We need this escape. We both need this so bad, it hurts. I can feel Percival’s
agony at what he’s learned about his sister. His frustration. We need a moment
of respite, like the lovely moment I gave Kay after he killed his father—only
cherished for a few minutes before Albert barged in and tried to assassinate us.
Memories flood my brain as Percival plays with my pussy and notches every
delectable spot inside me, claiming me. Memories of the wooden horse in
Camelot he built for me, complete with an accessory that made life so fun.
Riding that wooden dildo in the saddle while Percival fucked my other hole.
Watching him ride it, licking my lips as he mewled from the pleasure, and then
sitting on his lap so we could both feel that same euphoria. The threesome
with Gawain, who dominated both of us in the heat of passion, and we
willingly gave in, using that equine mannequin like an Olympic gymnast’s
pommel horse.
Now that I think of it, Percival might just be my kinkiest mate.
Then there was the dream, where I first met little Dindrane and Percival,
shortly before adult Percy fucked me against the trees and used his freaking
lute to help pry me apart. The tent session with him and Gawain, where I was
twisted into a pretzel, upside down and turned around, and Percy took control
over his bully and fucked me senseless with his brother-in-arms.
Every time I’ve been with Percival, except for the very first time I met him,
there’s been something else helping us along. Either an apparatus or a person or
a dream.
Now, it’s just us. As it’s meant to be, with our bodies slickening with sweat
and sliding, warm and sticky and flush against one another. My first mate,
fucking me with his hand and peppering my collar and neck and cheek and
entire body with kisses.
Worshipping me.
He drags his tongue down between breasts, the swell of my belly, over my
clit, and presses his face between my legs, just like old times.
My original fuck-buddy-turned-mate. My original sin and original secret—
hiding our cavorting from King Arthur as long as we could, until dominant
King Daddy caught us.
My mind is a mix of past and present, my beautiful, salacious memories
with Percy melding into one big orgy of blissfulness.
When his tongue leaves my wet slit, I grip his head with both hands,
tangling my fingers in his hair. Bowing my back, I groan, “It’s not enough,
Percy. It’s never enough! Shove your fucking cock in and brand my insides
with your cum. I’m begging you.”
 “Oh, my precious little star. You would risk everything? If you let me, I
might never stop. You’ll never be safe.”
“I don’t care!” My voice carries out the open aperture of this tiny hut.
Percival feeds himself inside me in one go, filling me to the brim, and my
voice lilts and goes even louder. I wrap my legs around his taut ass, feeling the
muscles flex and bulge with every thrust.
He moves slow and deep at first, making sure I can embrace every inch of
his long, powerful manhood. His hand wraps around my neck, giving me a
perfect necklace to dim my air supply, and my eyes roll wildly.
I grab his wrist and hold on for dear life, and he fucks me harder, thrusting
in a rolling rhythm that has my entire body bouncing and flopping.
Percival goes on his knees, then lifts himself to his feet and crouches,
folding my body back. He lifts my legs to his shoulders and my ass leaves the
ground as I bend inward like a beach chair. His hand moves from my neck to
my hair, and he grips me tight and forces my neck forward, tugging my hair
toward him, forcing out a shout of pleasure from my lips.
He has complete control over me—dominant and confident where he was
once soft and submissive. Percival might have shown the biggest growth out
of all my knights, and I fucking love it.
He slam-fucks me from above, jerking my body like I’m his toy. His cock
rails my insides, blooming through every extremity as it lets out sticky
squelching sounds from my dripping-wet cunt.
It’s so appropriate he has me in a mating press, after I just begged him to
fill me with his cum. I want him to fuck my brains out until I’m mindless and
can’t think about our troubles anymore. And he’s fucking doing it.
My mind goes blank and stupid when he growls and slams down, his cock
curving perfectly inside me. The world whirrs by in a blur, head rocking
forward and kept there by the way he grips my red locks in his hand and wraps
them around his wrist and pulls me.
He’s lucky I’m bendy, or else I’d pull a fucking muscle.
With his hips and cock keeping my lower half pinned, his balls slapping
loudly against my ass with every torrential thrust, he keeps my top half
immobile.
I couldn’t escape his ministrations if I tried.
My arms bounce uselessly to my sides. I wish I had a bedspread to grab
onto—something, anything to grip and squeeze and urge. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I
spew, my breath coming short and fast by how hard he fucks me.
On his next descent, his foot slides and he misses the edge of the bed.
He goes tumbling off the side—
And takes me with him.
His cock never leaves my stuffed pussy as he falls sideways, yanks my hair
and leg with him, and brings us to the ground.
“Oh God!” I cry from the sudden jerking motion. “I’m coming!” My body
convulses around his length. He laughs at my despair as my eyes slip back and
my thighs tremble.
Now he’s sliding in from the side. He won’t give up—nothing will stop him
from breeding his little snoop and giving her everything he has.
I could really use Baucillas’ little blue potion right now, which prevented me
from getting bred the first time Arthur and the rest of them filled me up in
the stockades. Because I can feel the full weightiness of Percy’s cum-filled balls
as they slap against me, and I know he’s going to erupt like a fucking volcano
any minute.
Before he does, he switches our positions again. I’m all fucking for it—
there’s not much I could do to stop him.
He rolls us around like we’re wrestling. My legs entwine with his. His cock
rockets inside me and then I’m suddenly on my belly on the wooden floor of
the room, planked.
It’s cold against my clit, and I grind for friction as he puts his weight on the
backs of my thighs, parts my ass crack with his fingers, and slides into my
asshole.
He starts thrusting and I scream and come again. In this prone position, at
this angle, he can get so fucking deep, and when he pulls my arms back and my
head comes up like a seal, it only gives him deeper access.
I let out lewd, unintelligible sounds that make me sound like a goddamn seal.
My hard nipples and throbbing clit grind against the floorboards. I’m worried
he’s going to fuck divots into the boards with how hard he’s railing me.
I try to crawl—
He lets me . . . for a split second. I think I have some control, and then he
snatches it away.
I’m on my hands and knees now, slithering forward, my fingernails biting
into the wood. For some reason I’m headed for the window, which only stands
at waist level because of the height of the room.
 At the open aperture, I can feel the cool breeze blowing in, wafting over my
slick body and lowering my core temperature. I let out a great puff, a sigh of
relief—
And Percival shoves his cock inside my ass again. He bends me forward,
one hand pushing my spine, while the other wraps around me and teases my
pert nipples.
With a cry of pure ecstasy, the upper half of my body pushes out the
window. I’m staring across at a treehouse and the winding network of wooden
bridges around this giant tree, but I’m not seeing anything. My eyes roll and my
tongue lolls like I’m a bitch in heat.
Percival wrenches my neck back by my hair, cutting off my scream. My ass
cheeks ripple against his hard hips with every thrust. I throw my ass back into
him, begging him for more.
“Thought you could get away, did you?” he whispers in my ear. “My sneaky,
bratty little snoop.”
“N-Never!”
He licks behind my ear and I groan, coming for a third time. My hands grip
the windowsill, hard enough to dent the wood. My tits bounce with every
violent buck of his hips.
“That’s a good pet,” he growls. It’s so unlike Percy. “My good little
fuckdoll.”
“Yes! Ahh!”
“Take my cum and let it warm your belly, snoop. Sleep with me inside you,
until I’m dribbling out of your ass and making a mess of your bed.”
I nod, croaking, losing my mind.
He hooks a finger inside my mouth and pulls, making sure I look like the
silly dumb slut I am.
Then he grunts, pushes harder on my spine so I’m completely bent forward
at nearly a ninety-degree angle, and floods my asshole with ropes of cum.
When I told him to brand my insides with his cum, and he said he would
breed me until we die, I didn’t expect him to gape my asshole and turn it into
his messy plaything.
I can’t complain. It takes a full thirty seconds until he’s finished bucking
and coming deep, deep inside me, and I linger in weightlessness and bliss the
entire time.
 When my angelic knight is finished with me, I plop down on my single-
sized cot. He goes to the ground next to me. I say “fuck it” and roll off the
bed so our limbs can entwine and we can bask in the glory of our sweaty sex
for a while longer. We hug and kiss and cuddle, and it’s everything.
Sure enough, I feel him dripping out of me, all through the night, and it
makes me feel depraved and nasty and loved.
“We have to protect your sister, Percy,” I say after we’ve fallen into a
content tangle of sleepiness and limbs. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Be on your guard when you traverse the kingdoms of Listenoise and Leudonia. The air
has seemed odd in this land for weeks. As if the presence of something evil lurks just under
the surface.”
That’s what Merlin told me over the campfire. I can’t get it out of my head,
and I haven’t seen him be wrong yet.
Percival pecks my cheek. He tilts my chin with a single finger, and I can still
smell myself on him. “I know, my star. As do I. We don’t know what the next
few days might bring, but we’ll tackle it together. I promise you that.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 31
Mordred

There are many aspects of being a king I hate. Things I didn’t consider when I
first took the crown from my uncle. I wanted change and a chance to repair
this broken realm and come out from beneath Arthur’s shadow. I had the
support to do it, too, as Domino.
Once the mask came off, and the glamour of my rebellion and victorious
coup waned, the harsh realities of kingship came into greater focus.
Now, the daily minutiae of running Camelot—which wastes hours of my
day, every day—is making me pull my hair out.
Perhaps it was the mask itself that protected me from the less attractive
qualities of being a sovereign. Before, I was an idea. A revolution. Now, I’m
just another man with a crown. There are plenty of those in Logres.
I’m expected to adjudicate petty grievances among the peasantry, and
mediate land disputes. I’m supposed to arbitrate and litigate issues my nobility
has—whose grievances are often far more petty than the commoners’. I need
to address my court in the mornings, throw feasts in the afternoons, and keep
everyone happy, which is an impossible task.
“The King of Camelot should welcome complaints and requests with open
arms,” Aunt Morgan told me, before leaving and throwing all this on my lap.
She told me I needed to start doing these things so I might slowly appease my
subjects and increase my popularity.
Who ever knew how tedious and awful it would be!
I don’t care about my popularity . . . which is something I suppose King
Arthur could say, too, during his maligned tenure. I’m beginning to understand
more of why Arthur was such a polarizing figure, and how the duties of
kingship might have affected him.
When I told Morgan I would simply delegate these official duties, she
scoffed at me. “That will get you no closer to the people.”
 “I don’t want to be closer to the people.”
“Then you’ll be no different than your uncle. Rather than sniveling like a
petulant child, why don’t you embrace these honorable obligations and show
your citizenry you care for their wellbeing? That is how you will turn things
around here, my sweet.”
I hate that she’s right. I also hate that she’s been gone for a fortnight now,
without so much as a messenger falcon, leaving me wondering every day,
Where the fuck is she?
I’m recognizing being a king is not all about sword fights and waging war.
It’s not battle speeches or training, but mediation inquiries and sitting about.
What’s worse, I’ve recently received word my uncle is beginning to show life
again. After my search for him stalled, he’s slithered out of the woodwork and
is raising an army north of Camelot. What began as a petty counter-insurgency
has evolved, reportedly, into a very real threat to my rule.
Just another thing to piss me off, knowing I can’t do anything about it until
he gets closer to me.
I do have an idea how to possibly rectify all my issues in one fell swoop. I
think it’s ingenious. I also know Aunt Morgan won’t like it, because it’s risky,
dangerous, and unprecedented.
Then again, I’m king. Not my aunt. She doesn’t need to confirm nor adore
every plan of mine. Avalon knows I’m not reciprocated the same respect for
her schemes, so why should I even tell her?
When a knock comes at the door of my conference chamber, where I’ve
been poring over documents, decrees, laws, and lists, my head pops up from its
bent angle over the table. For a moment, I see four doors instead of two,
because I’ve been analyzing the papers so intently it feels like my eyes have
started to fucking bleed.
I blink until the double vision aligns into one. “Who is it?” I bark, rubbing
my knuckles in my eyes. Then, “You know what? I don’t care who it is. Come
in. Anything to save me from this fucking monotony.”
The door opens and in walks a man I recognize.
Terrance, the once-bandit, once-scout, now fully fledged member of my
intelligence staff. The crude dullard has had his uses, so I’ve kept him around,
despite Morgan telling me I should kill anyone who might have come into
contact with the Holy Grail, or known it was in her possession.
 That ship has sailed. It seems all of Logres knows my aunt has the Grail
stashed away like buried treasure, and she’s even started using its existence—
and her possession of it—to strike deals with kings who are on the fence
about aiding my army against Arthur.
Terrance bows his head before walking in. He’s dressed in formal attire,
rather than his traveling leathers, and the look doesn’t suit him. His jaw clamps
when his head bows, as if he hates nothing more than saluting his superior.
His discomfort brings a smirk to my face. “Terrance, I wish I could say it’s
good to see you.”
“The feeling is mutual, sire.”
I bark a laugh. At least he doesn’t mask his discomfort or opposition to
authority. I kind of like him because of it. I think I’ll keep him around a while
longer yet.
“What can I do for you?” I lean back in my seat and fold my hands in my
lap. It’s not lost on me that I strike the very picture of my uncle in his heyday,
ruling over his subjects with calculating indifference.
Terrance takes a step into the room, hands behind his back. “Your prisoner
escaped.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Which one?”
“The knight.”
I frown. “Again . . . which one?”
Terrance sighs. “The Knight of the Round Table your aunt brought in a
few weeks ago. I don’t remember his name. There are too many of them.”
My frown grows. “Sir Lamorak?”
He snaps his fingers. “Ah. That’s the one.”
When I stand from behind the desk with my palms flat, pure death on my
face, Terrance backs up a step.
“How?” I ask the single word ruthlessly, tinting it with darkness. It’s all I can
do to keep from exploding on this man. This is the last thing I need to hear—
more bullshit piled up for me to fix.
His shrug is nonchalant, which makes me want to run him through with my
sword. “Not sure, sire. I wasn’t down there. I’m just the messenger.”
I straighten, lifting my hands from the desk, and fiddle with the cuffs of my
elegant tunic. Besides having to act the part of king recently, I’ve also had to
look the part. It’s probably another thing about me pissing Terrance off.
 He averts his gaze to the floor. “If you’re going to try to kill me, King
Morded, just know I plan on fighting back.”
That gets a wry smirk out of me, despite the increasing rage building in my
chest. “I’m not going to kill you, Terrance. I am going to need the name of the
guard on duty when Lamorak escaped. How the fuck could he let that
happen?”
“Guess you’ll have to ask Sir Dystan.”
“Dystan? Very well.” I make a mental note of finding the man who let
Lamorak get away and stringing him up. No doubt it was friends from his little
rebellion who helped him escape his captivity.
It’s not a huge loss to me, because I never wanted Sir Lamorak imprisoned
anyway. He was always a gallant, stalwart knight in Arthur’s service. Morgan
had her plans for him, but we’ll have to adapt now, I suppose.
She won’t be happy about that . . . which makes me oddly satisfied. I’m
growing more and more doubtful of my aunt as the weeks pass. I’ve only
recently started arguing with her, always scared to do it in the past. Now that
I’m king, I have more authority, and she knows it.
Also, I have a feeling she doesn’t have as much control over me without the
depths of her magic from Gorre. Her powers—if she’s using any on me at all
—must be weaker here in Camelot.
Shuffling through some papers on my desk, I click my tongue and find
what I’m looking for. I round the table and hold the folded note in front of
me. “I’m not going to kill you, Terrance, because I have a job for you.”
He blinks. “Great. Will it get me out of Camelot? I don’t do well enclosed
for too long.”
“Reckon yourself a wild stallion, do you?”
He shrugs, and it’s starting to annoy me how often he does that. “Well, I’m
hung like one.” A smile flashes across his lips. “So, sure. Why not?”
I snort and push the note into his chest. “It’s imperative this message gets
in the hands of Guinevere. If not her, one of her knights. Yes, yes, don’t look
at me like that. It’s the same redhead from Pomparles Bridge, you dolt.”
He hesitates, mouth opening and closing, before placing a hand over the
note on his chest. The knot of his throat bobs over a hard swallow. “So this is
a death sentence you’re sending me on, then.”
“No.”
“How do you expect me to get close to that hussy with King Arthur—”
 “He’s not king anymore.”
“—and Sir Lancelot and the others surrounding her like an iron wall?”
I step away from the scout and go behind my desk. It’s my turn to give him
a nonchalant shrug, and seeing the color drain from his face is so damn
satisfying. “How you succeed in your mission is up to you. You will succeed, or
else I’ll make sure your head is the next one on a pike in front of the castle’s
gates, Terrance. Understand?”
Poor Baucillas. He didn’t deserve that.
He nods diligently, the fear plain on his features.
“Who knows, maybe if you accomplish this errand, you’ll be knighted.”
I thought he’d be more excited to hear that. Then I remember who I’m
talking to. This opportunist doesn’t give a shit about valor, honor or any of the
tenets of knighthood. He’s a weasel, which is why he’s perfect for this quest.
He bows his head. The man appears deep in thought, perhaps for the first
time in his life. When his eyes lift to meet my gaze, there’s a question burning
behind them. He flaps the note in his hand. “Will you tell me what this is
about, at least, King Mordred? If I’m going to risk everything to get this note
in the hands of that woman, will you at least afford me that courtesy?”
I purse my lips in an impressed frown. He’s got balls asking me anything,
I’ll give him that. I contemplate his question, folding my arms over my chest.
Analyzing him for any sign of deceit or treachery. Of course, I’ll send spies
with him, to make sure he’s not a spy himself—that he doesn’t turn around
and relay the information to the rebellion building against me.
Then, I think, Why not? The word will get out soon enough. It won’t be a secret for
long. Morgan wanted me to develop a plan to “bring them to us.” She sounded
so devious when she said it, but didn’t give any guidance on how to achieve
that.
I’ve taken it upon myself to flesh out the idea. “Very well,” I tell him,
pointing at the note. “It’s an invitation.”
Terrance reels. “An invitation? To what? Isn’t she your enemy at this
point?”
I clear my throat. “In less than a month’s time, I plan on holding a grand
ball. Here. Inside Castle Camelot.”
He stays quiet, clearly confused.
“For a single night, Terrance, every citizen in Camelot will be invited to
dine and dance in the castle.” I spread my arms wide. “I’ll open the castle
doors to the citizens, regardless of status, so they can partake in the
festivities.”
When I give him a confident smile, his confusion turns into skepticism. It
makes my blood boil.
“All . . . right.” He scratches his cheek. “This will be the first time someone
has opened the castle to the public in . . . ever. Won’t it? No king has done
this.”
I nod decisively. “Indeed.” And the people will love me for it. This is how I turn my
popularity around, and bring my enemies to me at the same time.
“It will be madness.”
“Good.” I sit on my chair with a grunt. “I remember what you said, not
long ago, Terrance. We are the Avalon Redeemed.” He looks more confused
than ever. “This castle doesn’t belong to anyone.” I gesture to the walls and
everything contained within. “It belongs to the people. Without them, there is
no kingdom.”
He shifts his weight, clearly not understanding the gravity of what I plan to
do. “That’s, um, surprisingly forward-thinking of you, King Mordred.”
I sigh and wave a hand at him in dismissal. His lack of excitement has taken
some of the wind out of my sails. “Just do what I say and don’t question my
authority, yes? I’ve gotten you this far, haven’t I? From a simple bandit, to a
scout, to a leader, and now as an official messenger to the King of Camelot.”
“Yes, sire, I can’t argue with that.”
I glare at him. “Then don’t fucking disappoint me.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 32
Gawain

There’s a tense moment next morning when my father’s soldiers from

Leudonia arrive in the forest to escort Princess Dindrane back to Castle Rock.
The Knights of the Round Table surround Guinevere and Dindrane in the
clearing of the forest village, weapons out, armor on. We’re an imposing force
—one I’m sure dear Father didn’t expect to encounter here.
We’ve been moving swiftly through the regions of Logres, mostly going
undetected. It should come as no surprise to King Lot that, after the events in
Sauvage and Listenoise, we would show up on his doorstep next. If he even
knows what we’ve done and where we’ve been.
There are six guards on horseback who push through the trees, into the
clearing, trailed by a horse-drawn cart. Once I see the pale slant of their faces
through the morning gray, I draw my sword. Arthur, Lancelot, Percival, and
Kay do as well. Guinevere stays close to Dindrane, in a protective stance of
her own.
None of the forest dwellers make themselves known. They’re hiding in
their tree lodgings and in bushes, eyeing the goings-on but not making any
threatening moves.
The head guard draws his sword and bares his teeth, string down at us from
horseback. “We are here to gather Princess Dindrane of Listenoise at the
behest of our liege, King Lot of Leudonia.” His eyes scan our faces, at first
not noticing who we are. “Is this an ambush of some sort?”
Arthur steps forward. Excalibur gleams in his hand. “It is not, sir. If you
intend ill will on the princess, however, we will have problems.”
“I just told you my intentions . . .” He trails off, brow furrowing. Low
murmurs come from the other guards. One of the soldiers leans over in his
saddle and whispers something in his ear.
 Excalibur is the most recognizable sword in Logres. King Arthur is a burly,
intimidating force, and utterly recognizable, too. It shouldn’t take long for—
“You’re Ki—you’re Arthur of Camelot,” the head guard says, making sure
not to call him by his rightful title.
“I am,” Arthur says. I hoped he’d lie, so we could keep the farce going
easier, but that’s not Arthur’s way.
Now, I’m not sure we can avoid conflict, since my father has reportedly
been in league with Mordred. I tighten my grip on my sword, reaching behind
me to a dagger I plan to flick into the nearest man’s neck if they do anything
stupid.
“We did not expect to see you this far out of your realm,” the guard says.
He removes his hand from the hilt of his sword.
“That was the point, sir. We’re requesting a meeting with my father’s old
friend, King Lot. Hoping to repair strained relationships, as it were.”
Some of the guards chuckle, and so do I. That’s one way of putting it—an
imminent war on the rise. Yes, a “strained relationship.” Arthur has always been good
at defusing situations when he wants to. Here, he doesn’t want bloodshed.
I can’t say the same for myself. I always want bloodshed, especially when
treachery is involved. I respect Kay for smashing his father’s head like an
overripe melon. My sunflower Percival could have learned a thing or two from
our redheaded comrade, but he also didn’t expect Pellinore to be an incestuous
nightmare skeleton, so I’ll give him leniency on that.
Now that Percival knows what Pellinore was doing to his sister . . . I’m
surprised we aren’t turning right around to drag him through the streets and
flay him.
That would answer our problems easily enough.
As Arthur said late last night to me, “We can’t solve all our issues by
slaughtering the last kings of Logres.”
“Can’t we?” I replied.
“Would you kill your father, King Lot, Gawain?”
With a casual shrug, I answered, “Just tell me when. If it comes down to
choosing between you and Guin, or my father, the answer is easy.”
“And your mother?” he asked, brow arched. “My sister? Would you murder
Queen Anna, too?”
That one took me a while longer to answer. “We would find a place for her,
with my father gone.”
 Arthur shook his head at me, nearly smirking. “You truly are my most
wicked knight, Gawain.”
“Don’t you forget it, my liege.”
I’m not sure the guards peering at us now are interested in giving Arthur a
meeting with Lot. Things are on such a razor’s edge in Logres, do they need
more headaches?
Alas, what can they do to stop us?
Against my better judgment, I sigh and step forward from our pack. I’m
not doing this for the sake of peace, but simply because it’s too early in the
morning to start killing. We’ll have plenty of time for that later.
“Do you know who I am, soldier?” I call out from the side, twisting
everyone’s eyes in my direction.
The guard pauses, face contorting—and then flattens with bulging eyes.
“Prince Gawain.”
I sheathe my sword and fold my arms over my chest. “This isn’t a request,
soldier. We are meeting with my father. I vouch for King Arthur and can
promise it will be a peaceful venture.”
The guards share looks. This is out of their realm of authority or
responsibility, yet they have to make a decision. The decision is clear, and they
recognize it soon enough: No one wants bloodshed right now. Least of all
them.
“Very well, Prince Gawain,” the soldier says, nodding low. “You may join us
as an ancillary escort to Princess Dindrane.”
I know. It’s all a formality. “Good.” I thumb my shoulder at my friends.
“Let’s go get our carts.”

† † †

The journey from the woods southwest of Listenoise, northwest to Leudonia,

is less than two days on horseback. In the past, our kingdoms have been
closely aligned due to sheer proximity.
Following Uther’s death, things changed. Kings got greedy, and started
looking out for their own political futures, King Lot and King Pellinore being
no exception. Alliances became . . . “strained,” as Arthur would put it.
Arthur is the only one trying to put the pieces back together, before
Mordred can ruin it for everyone and destroy everything Uther cultivated over
decades of rule. He might have only been the King of Camelot, but Uther
commanded a respect and sense of togetherness other kings did not. They
looked up to him, and became fractured and misguided after his death. I’m
only now realizing how much influence he truly held over the other kings.
How much Uther’s voice of reason unified Logres.
Petty wars and rebellions are too common with him gone. It makes me
miss my former liege—his steady hand and wisdom; his peacemaking
capabilities; his love for country.
The fracture of our realm is no clearer to me than when our carts are
rolling through the streets of Leudonia, outside the city surrounding Castle
Rock, the former home to me and my kin. The townsfolk on the cobblestone
streets are tense. Quiet and reserved. Eyes flicker at us, zeroing in on Princess
Dindrane before the people turn to their friends and speak in hushed tones.
Windows are shuttered and streets are cleared, through no action of our own.
The gossip mill is already in full effect, less than an hour after stepping into
the capital city.
I give my allies a concerned look and we remain on high alert. If a rebellion
is brewing in Leudonia—like it seems to be in most countries these days—we
are perfect targets. Unsuspecting, vulnerable, and unprotected except for our
own steel.
My father’s foolish guards have decided to parade Princess Dindrane
through the center of the city, rather than rush her in through some secretive
means or the cover of darkness. It’s broad daylight, the sun is shining on the
high arches of the buildings and shops, and yet here we are, making spectacles
of ourselves.
I can’t think of Lot as a father right now. That title belongs to a poor man
back in Camelot. King Lot is sending a message: There is a new woman in
town, and everyone should know about it.
I can’t believe he would be this disrespectful to my mother. Where did this
audacity stem from? It makes me grind my teeth, blood rushing in my ears.
Guinevere notices. Sitting next to me on the cart bench, her hand falls on
my knee. I look down and scowl, even as she squeezes and offers me her best,
most disarming smile.
“It will be okay,” she says, pushing through my anger. “We will get through
this.”
“I know, little lark.”
 “Surely your father can’t be as bad as Pellinore or Ector?” She keeps her
voice low so Percival and Kay can’t hear us from the other cart.
I sigh. “Honestly? After what I’ve learned about those two in the recent
weeks? No. My father is not as bad.” He only tried to kill me when I was a helpless
baby. I sweep my hand out at the scared townsfolk we’re wheeling past. “But
this show of disrespect is alarming. It’s not the King Lot I remember. It’s
sloppy and uncalled for.”
Guin purses her lips. “People change, love.”
“Obviously not for the better.” Then I quirk a knowing smile. “Except our
little sunflower, perhaps, eh?”
Her pale cheeks flame like the sun, shocked.
“I heard how he dominated you last night, lark. Everyone did.”
She looks away, embarrassed. “He has changed. I think I have you to thank
for that, after he put you in your place a few times over the last couple
months.”
My smirk widens. “Be careful,” I say, “or I’ll do the same damn thing to you
when you least expect it.”
Her face spins in my direction. “You promise?”
I bark a laugh and tighten my hands on the reins. “There she is. My little
whore.”
Her mischievous smile grows. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in days.
I love when she looks at me like that. I could fuck her on this bench, in front
of all my father’s subjects, right now. I wouldn’t think twice about it if I didn’t
think it would cause unnecessary headaches to an already-headache-inducing
situation.
Castle Rock is called that because the fortress sits on a bed of glassy
volcanic stone, with rocky cliffs in three directions. It creates an incredibly
defensible position with only one entrance: the eastern, sloping ridge we ride
up. More guards are there to greet us at the gate, and I take satisfaction seeing
how surprised they are to see me and King Arthur. This was highly
unexpected, no doubt, which is exactly how we planned it.
So far, things are going well.
When my eyes narrow on the keep I once called home, I can’t help but
recall memories of this place. With my brothers, as boys. They were reared
here, while I was half a world away. It wasn’t until my prepubescent years I
returned “home.” I don’t remember it as a home at all.
 These thoughts make me wonder how much longer things are going to go
well, because I know it can’t last forever.

† † †

“Ah, my illustrious son has returned. What a pleasant surprise.” Lot beams
when he sees me. His eyes flash over to Guinevere for a split second, and it
irks me.
Clenching my hands into fists at my side, I step into the large chamber with
my friends behind me. Thick pillars keep the room upright on all four sides,
and a long table stretches the length of the room in the center. My father is at
the other end of it. Guards encircle the chamber near every door—two men
to a door—of which there are three. The doors lead to the kitchens, a study
room, and a foyer.
I might not have been here in ages, but one doesn’t forget their family’s
castle, or the hallways and labyrinthine passageways running through it. Secret
passageways my brothers and I used to explore when we wanted to escape the
watchful eyes of our father and mother.
Lot stands once I step into the room, his face cracking with a strained
smile. The smile looks odd on him, not because he’s a gloomy fellow—he’s
quite jovial, actually—but because it’s aimed at me.
“Father,” I say in a low voice, dipping my chin.
“Oh, and who is that, but the son of my age-old ally?” This he says to
Arthur, who steps up beside me.
King Lot is a big man with a rotund belly and a salty beard. Interestingly,
his physique doesn’t resemble any of my brothers. We’re all rather slender and
fit. They were slender and fit, I should say.
How can a man who has lost three sons in the span of months act so
unconcerned, and even joyous? It’s just another trick of my father’s, I know.
Deep inside, he must be reeling. He’s never been one to show weakness.
“Well met, King Lot,” Arthur says. “I’m glad you were able to find time to
meet us.”
“Find time between plotting your demise, you mean?” Lot says with a wry
smile.
“Just so.” Arthur returns the sardonic grin.
Lot sits and pats both sides of the table next to him. “Come, sit.”
 Percival steps forward before we can move. “Where have you taken my
sister?”
“Your sister, boy?” His thick caterpillar eyebrows scrunch. “Ah! You must
be Pellinore’s remaining son. Sir Percival, yes?”
I roll my eyes and breathe hard through my nose. Lot knows who fucking
Sir Percival is. Everyone on this continent does. If there’s anyone as
recognizable as King Arthur of Camelot, it’s the golden-haired, beautiful angel
boy of Listenoise. Hell, or Kay, the giant, red-bearded menace.
Shit. Seems I’m the most ordinary one here. I swipe strands of black hair out of
my face, feeling abruptly self-conscious. I swiftly toss that foolish thought
aside. My unremarkable looks have always served me well, allowing me to
surprise my enemies and skirt through life unperceived. You can get a lot done
when you don’t stand out.
As long as my little lark finds me as handsome as a rogue prince, I don’t
care what anyone else thinks.
Percival says nothing, waiting for Lot to answer him. He’s not in the mood
for games.
After a moment, Lot hums. He puts his hands on his belly, slumping in his
high-backed chair. “She’s in a safe place, Sir Percival. Don’t you worry.”
“Where?”
“The best guest chamber I have in the castle. Top room of the western
tower.” He pulls his hands up, in a sign of innocence. “She can come down
whenever she likes. I would not make such a beautiful creature a prisoner.
What monster would do such a thing?” His eyes bore into Percival’s,
challenging him. As if to say, Your father—he’s the monster I’m thinking of.
Percival takes the bait, because why not? We’re here to break up the alliance
between Lot and Pellinore, not foster it. “Tell my father that,” he mutters.
Lot shifts his weight. “So I’ve heard. Horrible business, really. I suppose
you should thank me for taking her away from that madness?”
“I will hold my gratitude in reserve, if it’s all the same to you, King Lot.”
I smile. Percival is showing some spine. I like this new version of the
sunflower more with every passing day. Sort of makes me want to bend him
over this table.
Lot chuckles. “My, but you are a testy lot, aren’t you?”
I say, “We’ve slogged our asses through this wretched continent for weeks,
Father. What can you expect?”
 “Fair enough.” He pats the tabletop again. “Now, will you dine with me like
regular guests? You must be famished from your travels.” He raises a brow.
Another challenge. “Or will you not deign yourself to such a lowly position?”
Cautiously, we head to the table and sit around him. King Lot loves holding
court, especially over a feast.
Percival continues his inquisition before the first plate is served. “What are
your intentions with my sister, my lord?”
“My intentions?” He seems genuinely surprised at the question. Or else he’s
become a very sufficient actor while I’ve been away. “My intentions are simple,
Sir Percival. Your sister is young and beautiful. She comes from good stock.
She will provide heirs since I’ve been losing them by the handful, and my wife
is barren.” At that, he gives Arthur a solemn frown. “I’m sorry to report,
Arthur.”
“Say their names,” I blurt. You make them sound like numbers and not flesh-and-
blood sons of yours, you heathen.
His nostrils flare with quick anger. “Agravain. Gaheris. Gareth.” He says
them slowly. “Are you happy, son?” He points down the line, to Lancelot,
sitting furthest back. “I’ve half a mind to wrench that man out of his seat and
see him executed, for his part in my boys’ grisly fates.”
Lancelot’s scarred face twists into a grimace.
I grunt in surprise. How does he know what Lancelot did?
The air in the room grows incredibly hot, incredibly fast.
“Alas, treachery over supper is not my way.” Lot throws his arms wide as all
three doors into the room open in unison. “We’ll deal with that situation later,
if I’m not too drunk to remember by dinner’s end.”
Our heads move like turrets. We jolt out of our seats, going for our
weapons, before the doors have opened—
My father’s servants march in, carrying covered plates.
Lot laughs at our uneasiness.
I stay quiet as the first plate arrives. It’s seasoned duck, likely hunted by Lot
himself. It smells delicious. I don’t dig in yet. I don’t suspect my father would
poison one of his only two remaining sons . . . but I also can’t put it past him.
Lot steeples his hands on the table once the servants have left. He focuses
on Percival. “I can see my explanation is unsatisfactory, judging by the twist to
your pretty face, Sir Percival. So, let me be clear: No harm will come to your
sister. She will have agency here, unlike in her homeland. She will have more
power than she knows what to do with.”
His words make my blood boil. Power? Agency? She’ll not be allowed anywhere
without Lot watching, once he breeds her. She’ll be exactly what we think she’ll be—a
captive serving one purpose.
Somehow, Percival seems appeased. He studies Lot’s face. “I’ll hold you to
that, King Lot.”
Has my sunflower become a seasoned actor as well?
Lot grins. “I’d expect nothing less.” He pounds the table with his fist,
which brings a surprised jolt and gasp from Guin to my left. “Now then, let’s
eat. I promise the food is not poisoned.”
Arthur grumbles. “We’ll hold you to that, too.”
My father lets out a low laugh, which shakes his belly. “Very well, son of
Uther. While we eat, perhaps you can tell me what’s on your mind? Tell me
why you’re here. Not that it isn’t a gift to see my favorite son in my court, after
so many years away.”
“We’re here to make an honest man out of you, King Lot.” Arthur bites
into his duck. “We’re here to rip you away from my nephew, your son, so you
might join me and your other son in preventing the ruination of Logres.”
Lot rumbles with laughter again. “Ah! This should be good. I love talks of
treason and war.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 33
Gawain

“It isn’t treason,” Arthur says. “Mordred never had a claim to my throne. You
know that, King Lot. Your son is a farce. He is illegitimate.”
“Claim? Illegitimate? Arthur my boy, you should know as well as anyone
the only right anyone has is the one they can take. All is fair in war, sir.”
Arthur bristles at Lot’s words. My father has never been much of an idealist
like Arthur or Uther. He’s practical, and even though his words make sense to
me, Arthur obviously hates hearing it.
The words make sense to me because they describe me. The only right I had
to live was the luck and strength it took to make it through that storm as a
child. The willpower to return to my seat as a prince of Leudonia. I had to
fight to survive, just to earn my place at court.
That might be why he respects me more than his other sons. I fought for
what I wanted, while the others were given their birthright on a silver platter.
When I left to join Uther’s Round Table, my father was wounded but not
angry. He understood it as the next stage in my journey.
On my end, I simply wanted to be rid of the gaudiness of courtly life and
the inane responsibilities that came with it. I wanted to be rid of Lot’s feasts,
his pontifications, and him, most of all. I would never grow here.
As luck would have it, Camelot had a sheen of gaudiness, too. The court
there was different, however, and at least I had a stern leader in King Uther,
and a real brother-in-arms in Arthur, to lead me.
The room grows quiet save for the clatter of us eating, and the slurping of
Lot drinking his wine. He drinks like Kay used to.
After a few minutes, I prop my elbows on the table. “We want you to end
your alliance with King Pellinore and Listenoise, Father.”
Everyone looks over at me, some of them with comical expressions on
their faces—mouths half-open, food in hand, tilted wine glasses. The plan was
never for me to blurt out our true reason for coming here so quickly.
Fuck it. I’ve never been one to lollygag. I’m a direct man. I sip some wine.
King Lot reads me, his brow furrowing. With a shrug, he returns to his
food. “Fine.”
I sputter up my wine, coughing. “What?”
“You heard me, son. I’ve never liked that crude man anyway.” He stares at
his plate, picking at his food with his hands. “I have what I want from the
bastard already.”
I blink, taken aback. Wipe the wine off my chin with my forearm. Eye
Arthur, then my father. “You would betray your alliance so soon with the King
of Listenoise?”
I feel like I have to hear it again.
Father sighs and looks up at me. “It’s not betrayal, son. We’ll call it . . . a
change of heart.”
“You’ll lend us your military aid, instead of Mordred?”
“I will.”
I’m so baffled I can hardly speak. My father is a direct man, too, yet this is
so outside the bounds of practical. It doesn’t make sense. It’s too easy. There’s
a catch.
He chuckles. “All you have to do is convince your mother.”
There it is. Queen Anna will never go against her precious Mordred. Her miracle child.
Whereas my father, on the other hand, likely blames Mordred for her barrenness.
Arthur says, “I would think my sister wouldn’t want to wage war against
Gawain, either, King Lot. That she wouldn’t want to lend support to either
army.”
Lot slurps wine. Smacks his lips. “I didn’t either, until your other sister came
to speak with her a week ago.”
Fuck.
Arthur’s body tenses. “Morgan le Fay was here?”
“For just a day or two until she disappeared into one of her magical
doorways.” He gestures vaguely in the air, wrist twirling in annoyance. “Ever
since then, fresh vigor has enraptured Queen Anna. It’s actually nice to see.”
Arthur’s brow furrows. “Fresh . . . vigor?”
“Yes. After months of refusing to throw her coin on anyone, she decided,
fervently, we should support Mordred. That is why it might be difficult
convincing her to now switch sides to you. Maybe I can convince her.”
 “Avalon save me, man,” Arthur growls, “what did Morgan talk to Anna
about?”
It’s a silly question. Everyone knows Morgan controls Camelot behind
Mordred.
Lot simply shrugs, taking this in stride—the betrayal, the meeting with the
Witch Queen. “You’ll have to ask your sister, Arthur. She spoke with the witch
more than myself. I try to stay away from that strange woman. Just looking at
her isn’t healthy for a man of my . . . appetites.”
My nostrils flare. Morgan has undeniable, otherworldly beauty. But my
father just recently obtained a young new mistress. Still, I understand the
temptation being there.
Arthur is not happy with this news. Anytime Morgan le Fay gets involved,
things get fucked. Sometimes quite literally. At the very least, she is an expert
at subterfuge, and making sure things aren’t the way they seem. If she came
and spoke with my mother—in secret—it can’t have been anything good. She
must have convinced Anna to support Mordred. What could she have told her?
“Where is Queen Anna, anyway?” Arthur asks, likely coming to the same
conclusion as me, at the same time.
Lot gestures vaguely into the air. “Up in one of the towers, no doubt.
Sleeping, if I had to guess. That one sleeps an awful lot these days, like some
sort of counter to her flurry of energy during the days.”
I notice Percival go rigid next to me.
Lot gives him a crooked smile. “Don’t worry, Sir Percival. Anna stays in the
east wing. Dindrane is in the west.”
I don’t like this one bit. I understand my sunflower’s fear: Putting Anna and
Dindrane in the same vicinity as one another, when they’ve become unofficial
rivals for Lot’s affection, is not good.
“I’ll need to see my sister,” Percy says, standing.
“Very well. I’ll have a guard bring you to her. Give her my kind regards.”
A soldier marches into the room and stands stoically behind Percival.
Arthur says, “Kay, go with him, please.”
“Yes, sire.” Kay salutes. He stands and follows Percival and the guard out.
My skin crawls. I hate the idea of Aunt Morgan stepping foot in Castle
Rock. I never liked her, even when she visited when I was younger. It was as if
I was the only one in this damned household who could see through her
mirage of beauty and magic. She always took an overly nurturing and
sympathetic stance to Mordred, too, propping him up when no one else did. It
was odd and eyebrow-raising.
Once the room is empty besides me, Arthur, Lancelot, Guin, and my
father, I take a deep sigh. Even if I don’t like separating Percival and Kay from
the group, I understand the need for Percival to check on Dindrane’s safety.
“Why is this so easy?” I blurt, aiming my directness as my father.
His dark eyes hold my gaze. He takes a moment to answer, prodding his
tongue against his cheek. “Being the father of a king has its benefits, boy, even
if that son is Mordred. I’ve never been fond of him, as you know.” He finishes
his wine and slams the gold chalice on the table. “Trade routes, military
accoutrements, alliances—many things become helpful, and available. I can do
business with Camelot again. Anna wants to lend Mordred support, and I’ve
agreed. Until now.”
“None of that answers my question, Father.” If anything, it answers the
opposite.
“Then hear this, Gawain: I’d just as soon back my favored son. You.” He
nudges his chin toward me. “I’ve always wanted to help you, and I’ve always
been willing. All I needed was for you to ask.”
I slant my head, confusion rippling through me. Under the table, Guin
holds my hand and squeezes. She offers me a small smile . . .
But I’m not buying it.
“All I needed to do . . . was ask?” I force out.
My father clears his throat. Suddenly he doesn’t seem as direct or
bombastic. He shifts his weight before locking his eyes with mine, steeling
himself and gaining the courage to say what he needs to say.
“You’ve never asked for a thing, Gawain. In spite of what I did to you—
what broke my heart to do to you as a defenseless whelp. I deserved your ire. I
thought you incapable of requesting support, as if sheer stubbornness forced
you to shoulder the world’s burdens by yourself.
“That’s why I knew the Knights of the Round Table would be good for
you. As much as it pained me to see you go. There, you could find
brotherhood for the first time in your life, away from the blood-kin in
Leudonia you’ve never seen as blood-kin.
“You were my greatest fighter and my firstborn. Fuck illegitimacy, or the
fact I had you out of wedlock—you’ve heard my opinions on birthright and
legitimacy. Two uglier words I’ve never heard. No, my boy, to hear you asking
for your father’s assistance . . . for the first time in your life . . . well, that is
everything to me.”
When he stops, his eyebrows have arched sadly. He looks close to tears.
The expression hardens in an instant.
The room is quiet save for my thundering heart. I don’t know what to say.
I’m acutely aware my lips have parted, and I might be gawking. When I open
my mouth, trying to urge some words to form, he holds a hand up to stop me.
“No, you needn’t say a thing, son. I know it is a lot to hear. A new weight
for you to shoulder. Just know I have always looked for ways to champion you,
even when I knew there were none.” He laughs at himself, shaking his head.
“Why do you think I sought Princess Dindrane? Besides her youthful beauty,
of course.”
I find myself pulling awkwardly at the skin of my neck. There’s a heavy
lump in my throat, and I can’t speak past it.
Lot smacks the table with his fist, jolting me to attention. “Because
Mordred isn’t worthy as my heir, and you refuse! I have no one left to carry my
name, Gawain.”
Now his sorrow has morphed into righteous indignation. My father has
been scorned, somehow, through this. He is the victim here, in his mind. Not
the three sons who have fallen.
“What if . . .” I trail off, swallowing hard. “What if I could be convinced to
take up the mantle of heir, Father? Would that, er, convince Mother to aid us,
you think?”
I think about my foster parents. The ones who raised me through
childhood. The ones who saw me grow and provided me a life. The poor
fisherfolk who gave me everything they had—as little as that might have been.
What they didn’t give me in material things, they gave me in love and
appreciation. I was their miracle child.
And now, for the sake of my oath to Arthur and Guinevere, I feel like I’m
betraying them just by saying the word: heir. I’m damning their memory for a
man who I always thought hated me, and disposed of me because I was an
unwanted, useless, illegitimate child.
I was not the son of a king. I was the byproduct of a mistake.
Who knew, this whole time, he pined for my approval? Just like . . . just like
I pined for his?
 Lot tosses his hands up. “If you can take the mantle, my son, and you can
live through this tumultuous time, then I will have no reason to pursue
Dindrane for heirs. The burden to continue our name will fall to you.”
The conflicting thoughts inside me are overwhelming. This was never how
I expected this feast to go—my first time back in Leudonia in years. By the
looks on Arthur and Guinevere and Lancelot’s faces, I can tell no one thought it
would go like this. Hell, even my father appears surprised at everything he’s
spilling.
I look at every angle, trying to find something I’m missing. Lot is speaking
in such a heartfelt way, despite his direct demeanor. Yet, I’ve become so used
to betrayal and lies and half-truths. So I search for those, now, here.
And I come up empty.
Guin speaks for the first time. “No,” she says, shaking her head.
“No?” Father and I say in unison.
“You can’t get rid of Dindrane, King Lot,” she explains. “You can’t send
her back to that wretched place, Listenoise. You would be damning her to the
same fate—no, a much worse fate—than the one you nearly damned Gawain
to all those years ago.”
Lot purses his lips. He sees Guinevere for the first time—really sees her—
and nods. Then he smiles at me. “I like this one, Gawain. If you can keep her,
there will really be no need for me to continue searching for successors.”
His implication is clear, and not unappreciated.
Now is not the time for it.
“Very well,” he says. “I suppose I can keep the princess.”
Arthur speaks, his voice gentle in a way I haven’t heard in a long time.
“Perhaps you can keep Dindrane . . . as a chambermaid? A lady-in-waiting?”
Lot looks confused. “What?”
“Queen Anna.”
“Oh. Shit.” Lot sighs. “Yes, can’t forget about her.”
“This will ruin Dindrane,” Guinevere says, biting her lip. She shakes her
head, like this is somehow her fault. I want to wrap her in a hug, and I plan to
do that once we’re given our rooms for the night. “I can’t believe this is what
we’re deciding. She loves you, you know, King Lot. Or at least she thinks she
does. This is so heartless.”
Lot’s brow flies to his hairline.
 “It does seem like the best course of action, little one,” Arthur says, reaching
over to run a soft hand over her shoulder. He rubs behind her neck. “The
peaceful solution.”
Lot snorts. “Except for the soldiers who get killed fighting in yours and
Mordred’s names, of course.”
Arthur bows his head, shame crossing his features. “Maybe there’s another
way.”
“A duel?” Lancelot chirps up. It’s the first we’ve heard from him, and Lot’s
face instantly hardens when he hears Lancelot’s voice.
I realize something. Morgan le Fay was here. That’s how my father knows what
Lancelot did to Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth. It makes so much sense now. She told him.
Guin’s eyes dart between Arthur and Lancelot. She looks scared.
Frightened of a duel between Mordred and Arthur, maybe? Veins protrude
near her temple, and I can tell she wants to say something so badly, yet she
stays quiet.
“A duel would reduce the bloodshed dramatically,” I say. “It’s the practical
solution.”
“If Mordred even accepts,” Guin blurts. “I just—I don’t know if—”
“He would accept if his honor depends on it,” Arthur interjects. “My
nephew is a proper bastard, but I don’t think he’s spineless. He would have
never raised the sword against me if that were the case.”
I chuckle. So does my father. We glance at one another. There is still so
much between us left unsaid. He’s spilled his heart onto the table for me, and I
haven’t had enough time to respond in kind. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to that
point.
Lot says, “We can decide this later. I grow tired, friends.”
Arthur says, “Can you keep your hands off her, King Lot? Princess
Dindrane, that is.”
My father lets out a heavy sigh. “I have been looking forward to her arrival.
Yearning for her.”
“You must think of Queen Anna, Lot. Think of the disarray this coupling
with Dindrane will spark in your kingdom. To the citizens.”
Lot scoffs. “Half the citizens are for it. They see Anna as weak.”
“You just said she’s recently shown fire like never before.”
“True.”
“Then perhaps you can . . . use that fire.”
 Lot palms his forehead, rubs his temples. A low chuckle rises from behind
his hand. “Avalon redeem me, man. To think I’d ever be taking advice on love
from my old friend’s son. You truly are a rare specimen, King Arthur.”
My lip curls into a smile at his use of “King.” We might truly have him on
our side.
“We will conclude this business on the morrow, friends,” Father says. He
stands from his chair, and we follow his lead. “I need time to think. My aids
will show you to your guest chambers. Just know, Gawain”—he tosses his
beard my direction—“you have my support. And because you have it, I’ll have
to change the subject of tomorrow night’s feast.”
“The subject, Father?”
“Feast?” Guin adds.
He smiles. “It was meant to be a celebration of Dindrane’s arrival. Now, it
will have to be a celebration of your return home. Of you embracing your
place as rightful”—he shivers at the word—“heir of Leudonia.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 34
Guinevere

I’m skeptical. Worried about King Lot’s integrity and honesty. He talks a good
game. He said everything we wanted to hear. Too easily, in my opinion.
Nothing comes easy to the Knights of the Round Table, and I suspect this
won’t be any different.
Still, the things he said to Gawain . . . they were so touching. He spoke as a
father, not a king, laying out his reasons, unraveling his years-long frustrations.
According to Lot, all he ever wanted was Gawain’s love, acceptance, and
forgiveness. And here Gawain thought his father hated him, or else why would
he have tossed him on a deadly voyage across the sea as a baby?
This has been a night of revelations. King Lot needed a gentle nudge in the
right direction, and now he seems entirely too eager to help us. It’s a much
different situation than King Ector or King Pellinore. Even though Lot has
some awful tendencies, such as pining for Dindrane right under the nose of
his wife, he doesn’t seem like an entirely terrible man. In this world, especially.
I mean, the bar has been set so low. Anyone is better than Ector and
Pellinore.
Even with everything that’s transpired in the few short hours we’ve been
here, my heart is torn in so many directions. I should have never spoken up.
Poor Dindrane. She only wants peace and a new life. I completely
understand that. It’s the same thing I wanted before being magically
transported to Camelot.
But our mission directly coincides with hers. The mission of King Arthur is
to break up the Listenoise-Leudonia alliance, which means Dindrane gets
screwed. She’s collateral damage. If we get what we want, her life will never be
what she hoped. It will be our fault.
My fault, I feel, for blurting out my thoughts over dinner. Arthur had a fair
compromise suggestion: Turn Dindrane into a helpful worker or lady-in-
waiting.
That’s not what the princess was banking on. It’s not the life she was
guaranteed before coming here. Once she learns what we’ve done, she’ll never
want to see us again. She’ll hate us, and we’ll deserve it.
I’m lying in my bed in an opulent guest chamber. Staring up at a hanging
chandelier across the room, wrought from iron and steel. Castle Rock is as
harsh and unforgiving as the name suggests, yet there’s a certain stoic beauty
about this place. It doesn’t have the same regal elegance as Castle Corbenic in
Listenoise, because it’s more of a fortress for war.
I find myself thinking, Is there another way we can do this? A way that doesn’t hurt
Dindrane’s future, yet gets us what we need?
Letting out a sigh, I let my hands fall to my belly, and lace my fingers
together. Then I roll onto my side and toss stubbornly to the other side. I can’t
figure out all the answers myself. The political maneuverings we’ve been doing
over the past few weeks have started to weigh down my conscience. I keep
wanting to do things in the least aggressive, softest way. I don’t want people’s
lives to be ruined because of our decisions.
I’m realizing it’s simply impossible to get everything we want without
stepping on some toes. What did Lot say? “All is fair in war.”
This is an ugly, heart-wrenching business. I fear for Dindrane’s future. I fear
for Arthur’s sensibilities, hoping he doesn’t agree to anything without
searching every angle first. I fear for Lancelot’s safety, being ostensibly trapped
in a kingdom when he’s murdered three of its heirs. I fear for Percival’s peace,
knowing how anxious he is for Dindrane. Kay, well, ever since becoming King
of Sauvage, he’s seemed rather removed from the politics of everything else.
He’s already gotten his, but I know he worries about his brothers-in-arms
more than perhaps anyone in our group.
After a torturous two hours of trying to fall asleep, I sit up and let out a
frustrated sigh. I run my hand over my eyes and hop down from the high
frame of the bed. I slip out of the room, where Kay and Arthur are stationed
outside.
I quirk my brow. “What are you two doing here?”
“What do you think, little one?” Arthur says incredulously. “Watching your
door.”
I frown. “You think Lot would try to kill me in my sleep? He doesn’t seem
as wicked as the other kings, Arthur.”
 “Your first mistake is believing that to be the truth.”
I smirk. “Are you as wicked as he is, then?”
“You already know I am.”
Kay says, “What are you doing out, little lamb? We’re taking shifts to watch
your door because we refuse to leave you alone. It would be easier if you
simply slept in one of our beds . . .”
I put my hands on my hips. “Then I’d never get any sleep.”
He shrugs. “Looks like that’s already the case. Might as well get yourself
fucked into submission while you wait for sleep to take hold. Maybe it’ll help
bring you there.”
A tingle runs up my spine. Kay hasn’t spoken to me like that in a while, and
it does something fun between my legs.
I pop a pose with my hip out, flashing him a crooked smile. “Maybe that’s
my plan. Why I’m out here. Ever thought of that, big guy?”
When he smiles, his bushy beard twitches. “Ah. Is it Gawain’s turn, then?”
I stammer, mouth opening and closing as Arthur chuckles. “Hey, I never—
I mean—” I sigh, my shoulders sagging. “Fine. Yes, I want to find Gawain.
But it’s not to do what you think!”
Kay’s grin widens. “Oh, I’m sure. There’s absolutely no chance your little
talk will end up with you bent over on all fours for him.”
I squeeze my thighs together, resisting the urge to let a squeak past my lips.
“Well, I never said there’s no chance,” I murmur in a strangled voice. “But I
need to get his thoughts on everything that’s happened so far.”
Arthur gestures down the hallway. “You know where his room is. We’ve
kept this level clear of any guards or people we don’t know. So you can go,
little girl.”
The way he gives me permission to leave my room is oddly gratifying and
hot. I curtsy, with sarcasm lacing my voice. “Thank you, sir. I promise I won’t
be a bad girl.”
His gray eyes light up. “That’s a shame.”
With that, I giggle and skip off down the hall. I make sure to glance over
my shoulder before I round the corner, and see both knights watching me
intently.
No doubt they’d love to take me together. Arthur and his foster brother, his seneschal, his
best friend. God, what a raunchy experience that would be. The two tallest, burliest knights
in my entourage. They could lift me like a feather between them, and do oh-so-many
depraved things to me—
I try to clear my mind of the naughty thoughts racing through me as I
march down the hall. It’s difficult, because every time I see one of my guys in
distress, I want to do everything I can to help. I want to offer myself to them,
in the hopes my body might make them forget their troubles for a while. I
want to embrace them in carnal ecstasy, to make me forget my troubles.
If I’m going to fuck Gawain, that’s fine, I tell myself, but we need to talk business
first, or else it’ll never happen.
Maybe if Gawain lets me know his deepest thoughts—which is a feat in
and of itself—a light bulb will go off in my head, and I’ll realize what we need
to do. So far that strategy has worked, so why should it be any different now?
Because Gawain is my hardest knight to penetrate. I chuckle at the thought, tinged
with naughtiness and innuendo. Well, he’s not that hard to penetrate for Percy. But for
thoughts and emotions and feelings? It’s practically like talking to a brick wall. The most
I’ve ever gotten out of him, I feel, was when we found Lancelot shifted out of
his demon form, after the battle in the valley where Lance killed Gaheris and
Gareth.
Gawain was ready to throw in the towel on the whole operation and oath-
giving with the Round Table. I managed to convince him he was too
important for me to let go.
He is an essential piece in the balancing act that makes my guys who they
are. Percival gives me hope, Kay gives me strength, Gawain gives me
confidence. They are the triumvirate of the Round Table, slightly removed
from King Arthur and Sir Lancelot. They may not be the king or his greatest
demonic warrior, but they are all-too-important pieces of the puzzle.
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost any of them.
So, now, I need Gawain to understand I always have his back. Even if it’s a
choice between Dindrane’s happiness or Gawain’s heirship, I will always
support my wicked, dark-haired fiend of a partner.
When I meander down the next hall, where I know Gawain’s room is
located at the end, my head twists for a second with confusion. I put a palm to
my forehead and screw my eyes shut. God, too much thinking. Too much
contemplating. It’s giving me a fucking headache.
I shake off the feeling and continue down the hall, to his door—
And pull up short a few feet away.
 The door is slightly ajar. I hear voices coming from the room. Neither of
the voices are Gawain’s.
The first I recognize as King Lot’s thick, robust cadence. Putting my hand
on the wall, I slither toward the crack in the door, my curiosity piqued.
He’s in the middle of a conversation—an argument—and his voice rises to
a level where I can hear it, even without seeing him.
“. . . wrong with you? This vitriol is so unlike you.”
“You know what you’re doing, Lot. I won’t stand for it.”
My brow furrows. I could have sworn this was Gawain’s room.
The second voice belongs to a woman. When I hear footsteps pounding on
the floor inside the room, I back up against the wall and hold my breath. I can
guess who that second voice belongs to based on its volume and anger.
“You humiliate me in front of the whole city, bringing that whore through
the main streets!” Queen Anna chides.
I mean, she’s not wrong.
Lot says, “I’ve apologized for that. I am still the King of Leudonia, you
know. I can do what I want, woman.”
“And I am free to voice my opinions on the matter.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of voicing in recent days, Anna. I ask again: What
has gotten into you? You used to be so docile and—”
“Docile! Gah! Maybe I would still be if you hadn’t pushed me to the edge
of reason!”
Lot’s voice lifts to a boom, careening down the hallways, bouncing off the
walls. “You can’t bear anymore children! What more reason do you need?”
“You don’t need anymore children, you giant fool,” Anna hisses, her voice
like a snake. “You already have a perfectly good one in Mordred.”
I put a hand over my mouth to hide my gasp.
“Mordred cannot be my heir in Leudonia if he’s ruling Camelot.”
“So? When you die, Mordred will absorb Leudonia and he’ll be king of
both. Easy.”
Lot growls, “Ludicrous! Oh, wife, how long have you been planning that
little deceit? My kingdom is not getting absorbed into anything. Camelot is the
realm of Pendragon, Leudonia is the realm of Leudonus. Our families dictate
our history, and Mordred’s history is not ours!”
“He’s your son!”
“Allegedly!”
 A gasp wrenches from Queen Anna. Thank God, too, because it conceals
my own.
Their thunderous argument falls to deathly silence. It sounds like they’ve
both said things they didn’t mean to.
This whole situation is putting a huge strain on their relationship.
“Listen, husband,” Anna begins after a minute of the dreaded silence. Her
voice is lower, calmer. “Arthur is not your ally. He never was. He is using you.
Get rid of him and come to your senses. If we want to be on the right side of
this, we must place our support with King Mordred.”
“You’re asking me to betray my oldest ally’s son. Your brother. The same
friend I fought countless wars with. The same king I’ve promised to support
tonight.”
“I’m asking you to do what’s best for Leudonia. And the answer is staring
you in the face. Rid yourself of these distractions—the whore Dindrane, the
would-be-usurper Arthur—and do what is practical.” Queen Anna’s voice is
calm but menacing. “What does it matter, so long as you have a son on the
throne? What does it matter which son? You’ve won, Lot. You just can’t see it.
You’re making this more complicated for yourself than it needs be.”
Holy shit, she’s talking about murdering her own brother . . . and disowning their
firstborn son together! I have to tell Arthur right away.
“The best thing to do,” she says, “is keep Lady Guinevere here until we can
bring her to Mordred. She is the key to ending this war before it even begins.”
My eyes bulge and I backpedal another step, nearly sliding to the floor. My
feet thump on the ground as I catch my balance.
The voices cut short.
“What was that?” Lot snaps.
I spin and bolt down the hall, as quickly as my feet will take me. Tears are
welling in my eyes, burning, and my heart hammers in my chest.
I turn the corner before the door can swing open.
I’m lost, stuck in these labyrinthine corridors when I thought I knew where
I was. I swear I thought that was Gawain’s room! What the hell! Oh shit, shit, shit! I
can’t hear any footsteps pounding behind me. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s
following, but I wouldn’t be able to tell even if they were over the deafening
pounding in my ears.
Lot really is being led by his queen. And she’s turned ruthless!
 I have no doubt when this happened: Dindrane threw a wrench in the
whole operation. Now things are fucked between the King and Queen of
Leudonia.
With my head spinning and wheeling, I round another corner, grabbing the
wall to pull myself around it. I glance over my shoulder and see no one behind
me. Thoughts shoot off in my head as quick as my sprinting footsteps.
What if Lot placated us over dinner tonight to keep us lulled in a false sense of
security? What if his support is an illusion! What if Pellinore’s army is en route as we
speak? Or worse, if Camelot’s army is on the way to gather us up, and we’re essentially
prisoners in this castle until Mordred shows up?!
My hammering heart thuds against my ribcage as I run, then blindly turn
another corner—
And nearly slam into King Arthur’s back.
He spins just before I’m there, hand moving from the hilt of Excalibur to
my body, to soften the impact.
A sob wrenches free from deep in my belly.
“Guin! What’s wrong?” he asks, wrapping his burly, protective arms around
me.
I stuff my head against his chest and speak through sniffles. “Oh, Arthur.
I-I-I heard something. It’s awful.”
He tilts my chin with his fingers, forcing me to stare up at him. With the
pad of his thumb, he wipes my tears away. “What is it, little one?”
“I don’t think we can stay here, Arthur.” I sniff again, shaking my head,
blinking my red-rimmed eyes. “I think Lot is going to betray you. And I . . . I
think your sister wants you dead.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 35
Arthur

I grind my teeth as I pull on my vambraces. It’s morning, and the rustling in

the bed behind me makes me look over my shoulder and smile softly.
Guinevere is just waking. I demanded she sleep in my guest room last night,
after the confusing events she experienced while trying to find Gawain. The
way she says it, she went to where she knew Gawain’s room to be, yet it was
King Lot and my sister Queen Anna in there instead, arguing. Scheming.
After I’ve laced up the guards on my forearms, I sigh and put my palms on
my knees, going over everything. It’s not like Guin to get confused or lost. Reckless
and brave? Absolutely. She’s no fool, though, and knows to track her steps wisely, especially
when we’re in a stranger’s castle.
I had felt good about the way our supper ended last night with Lot. I
thought we had my father’s greatest ally on our side, after the way he spilled
himself to Gawain. It was a rare tender moment from the warlord king, and
my respect for Lot rose exponentially.
Now? I’m not so sure. I still believe I can trust him. Anna, however, I’m
not certain about.
Shaking my head, I think, When did you become so hard-hearted, sister? You were
always the nice one of Uther’s children. Past Anna would have never dared to raise a hand
against her son, much less her brother. Anna didn’t even make a point of seeing Gawain
yesterday, after years of separation.
I understand it’s difficult for her. She has two sons who can’t get along, and
is torn about which one to support. Or at least I thought she was torn. Guin made
it very clear who Anna said she wants to assist, and it’s not me and Gawain.
I stand from the bed as the sunlight breaks in through the gap in the
curtains behind me.
Warm fingers wrap around my wrist before I can move. I glance down and
see Guin’s spindly fingers holding tight, eyes closed in near-sleep.
 I chuckle and pet her, running my hand through her gorgeous red curls.
“Hello, little one.”
“Don’t go,” she murmurs, eyes still closed.
“I wanted to let you sleep a little longer. We have a long day ahead of us.”
She shakes her head like a little brat, letting out a hum of disagreement.
“Nuh-uh.”
I plop back down on the edge of the bed, for her sake. With the sun
basking her side in warmth, she looks like an angel. Naked, with the sheets
curving just under her breasts. Her nipples are pebbled and look delectable,
poking out over the sheets. Her curves are alight with morning fire.
I don’t want to wake her out of her comfortable snooze, yet I want to
demolish her at the same time. There’s nothing better than breaking an angel,
and Guinevere is just begging for it looking like that, with her body so
vulnerable and delicious in the sun.
Her eyes wrench open, half-lidded and small. She stares up at me adoringly.
“Fuck me, my king.”
I look down at myself. “I’m already in my armor, my love.”
“So? Keep it on. I’d love a knight in all his splendor to ravage me and wake
me up.”
Heat grows inside me. My cock thickens against my thigh. Her words have
that effect on me, every time. “If I ravage you right now, Ever Queen, you
won’t be waking up. I’ll be putting you back to sleep.”
“Good. It’s comfy in here.”
I sigh. What’s the point of arguing? Guin always gets her way when it
comes to us knights. King or not, I’m no different than the others—wrapped
around her pinky finger, eager to please and worship her.
Her hand slithers from my wrist, around my hip, and up to my thigh. I
watch her feel around blindly, inching closer between my legs.
I part my legs a fraction and dwarf her hand in mine. Then I show her
where she needs to go, moving her hand under the waistband of my leathers.
When her fingers touch my cock, I let out a hiss of pleasure.
She tries to wrap her fingers around my length, but simply can’t. So, I help
her along, keeping my hand over hers, guiding her lazy strokes. “You’re playing
with fire, little girl.”
“Good. My favorite.” Her voice is low and throaty as she blindly caresses
my cock in my pants from behind.
 I’m getting too big to be contained. With a growl, I force her hand up and
down my shaft faster. With my other hand, I free myself, pulling my pants
down to my knees.
She crawls over to the side of me, gasping when she sees my cock jutting
up from between my legs, and the way it dwarfs her tiny hand. She brings her
other hand over for assistance, and uses both to stroke my length.
I lean back, propping my palms down behind me, and lift my eyes to the
ceiling. “You’re a treacherous little nymph, you know that?”
With a giggle, she nods. She still sounds so sleepy, but if this is what she
wants . . . well, here we go.
“I can’t stand the thought of you pleasuring me without me returning the
favor at the same time,” I say, watching her work. She has a steady rhythm,
hands corkscrewing and dragging from my base to tip, thumbs gliding over the
fat ridge of my cockhead, smearing wetness over my shaft.
“It’s okay,” she says, “I can help myself at the same time.” One of her
hands lifts from my cock and disappears behind me, where I can’t see.
Presumably, she’s going to play with herself while jerking me off—
I lash out and grab her wrist before she can get too far. She lets out a shaky
breath when I hold her still. “No, that’s not allowed. I have to do it.” My voice
brooks no argument. “Do you understand?” I say in a commanding voice.
“Only I can pleasure you.”
She nods, eyebrows arched with desire and helplessness.
“Say it, little one.”
“I understand, sire. Only you are allowed to show me pleasure.”
I grunt my satisfaction. “Good. Even though your hand feels like a celestial
blessing, it’s not enough.”
“Would you . . . would you rather we do something more twisted?”
I think for a moment. My eyes narrow on her. “Twisted . . .” I echo,
nodding. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
“What do you—”
I’m up from the bed in an instant, spinning around to lift her with me. A
breathless yelp when I grab my bad little girl under her arms and hoist her up
until her feet are dangling, kicking inches off the bed.
When I smile deviously, Guin’s breath hitches. I have her in my arms, light
as a feather, and she stares in confusion at me. Her naked body emanates heat
in waves, while mine is constrained by the thick breastplate I wear, and the
armguards. If I’m not careful, I’ll nick her pristine, pale skin on my silver
armor.
“Ready?” I ask. A smirk twists my lips.
“For what?” she mewls.
With a dark chuckle, I move in one fluid motion and flip her upside down
—end over end, my arm hooking between her legs, while the other turns her
at the shoulder.
She lets out a squeal of shock. Her body trembles when the steel of my
vambrace slides over her clit and wet seam.
Now I’m staring down at the most beautiful sight in all Logres: my Ever
Queen’s gorgeous, sweet cunt.
“Oh my God, Arthur!” she cries out from somewhere below me. “All the
blood is rushing to my head and your fat dick is on my freaking face!”
“Is it? Then do something with it. Now.”
“I-I—”
I cut off her words when I reach down between us where I can’t see, fist
my cock, and feed it into her mouth. She gags and snorts as she pries her lips
apart and tries to take my girth as valiantly as she can.
With my arm over her middle like an iron band, I keep her steady. Her legs
kick, knees bumping on my shoulders. Then I lick my lips and stuff my face
between her legs.
She lets out a long, vibrating hum on my cock. I buck my hips, shoving her
head back as she throats me like a desperate little vixen. I hold her in place
and, while face-fucking her, roll my tongue over her pussy and clit.
She jerks involuntarily as I eat her and slurp her sweet morning nectar. Her
hands wrap around my hips and fall on my bare ass, grabbing tight for
something—anything that will give her leverage and stability.
We stay in this twisted position for many long, lovely minutes. The sounds
of our ministrations become wet and sloppy in the bedroom. The stifling
scent of sex permeates the chamber. I feel every bump on her tongue as it
slides over the top of my cock, upside down. I reach deep inside her with my
tongue, to pay her back for all she’s doing.
Eventually, she lets out muffled squeals as my thrusts become more
aggressive. Her hands slap my ass, begging for release before she passes out.
I lift her and my cock slides out of her wet mouth. She’s breathing heavily,
drooling all over, and still clutching my ass cheeks because I refuse to give her
respite from tonguing her pussy. She’s so wet it’s dribbling down the front of
her belly, and on the other side down her crack.
“Fucking hell,” I growl, removing my suction from her folds. “You taste so
damn succulent. I could feast on your pussy all day, my Ever Queen.”
Her body convulses every few seconds. I can hear the way her voice is
fading from her moans. I twist her upright, in my arms, and stare level at her
blood-rushed face and red-rimmed eyes.
“A-Are you ever going to put me down?” she asks.
“No. Not on your life. Your feet aren’t touching the ground until you’ve
come at least three times, little girl.”
She swallows hard and nods diligently. “Well, I’ve already come once, so
we’re getting there.”
My eyebrows arch wickedly. “Good girl.”
I plant her down on my cock before she can respond, and her mouth pops
open. She gawks at me, wordless, lilted on a silent cry.
So I fill her mouth with my tongue, enveloping my lips over hers, and
dominate her in that hole, too.
My hands fall under her round ass cheeks to keep her lifted. I bounce her
on my cock and she wraps her legs around my back, holding on as firmly as
she can.
I start to hoist her off my cock. She growls in protest. So I slam her back
down. Then I repeat the process, making sure her hole is nice and gaped
before I ravage her.
“Fuck—coming again!” she yells, letting out a long moan. Her forehead
falls between my neck and shoulder as she grits her teeth and fights through
the orgasm.
I walk with Guin in my arms, hilted on my cock. At the bed, I go to my
knees on the sheets, keeping her elevated the whole time, so her feet don’t
touch. As promised.
She gasps and hugs me tight, staying on me like a front-facing pack. She
presses against my breastplate, hard nipples gliding over the slick, polished
steel.
I grin at the way she grinds her body into mine. Even immobile and at the
mercy of my every whim, she’s doing whatever she can to consume my entire
cock and fill herself with pleasure. I love her tenacity. Her desire to stuff all of
me inside her even when she’s already stretched so far.
 Once on my knees, I scoot forward to the end of the bed, where the
headboard meets the wall. “Here we go,” I warn, and push her flat against the
wooden headboard.
She looks up at me with wide eyes. Blinks incessantly, from the way my
cock is wedged inside her, unmoving. “Do it, you hung fucking heathen.
Destroy me like I’m your toy.”
“Well, well, well. Someone has woken up, hasn’t she?”
She snarls at me like a feral animal, baring her teeth.
I fuck her into silence, making her clench her mouth shut as I thrust her
whole body up the headboard.
She slides, eyes rolling, and comes back down.
I keep her pinned between my body and the wood, my flexed arms framing
either side of her face, palms on the wall. Her ass flattens against the
headboard and she takes my cock like the best fucking girl.
My hands go under her arms again, so I can claim her body and use her like
the plaything she wants to be. Now that I have leverage with the headboard—
some assistance—I proceed to fuck her silly.
Her moans carry through the room, reverberating off every surface as I rail
into her and buck my hips upward. Her feet fall flat on my muscled thighs, so
she can give herself some leverage. Technically, it’s not cheating, because her
toes still haven’t touched the floor.
The headboard smacks the wall—thunk, thunk, thunk—until her moans turn
to screams and shouts of derelict, mindless pleasure. “C-C-Coming!” she
stammers in my ear.
I watch her face twist, losing herself to the climax while I keep her pinned
to the wooden board, tits jiggling uncontrollably, body shaking and quivering.
I glance down at her stretched, stuffed pussy, and watch as a creamy white
sheen coats my cock from her intense orgasm. My thrusts stay aggressive and
violent through it all, no matter how tight she clamps down and sheathes me.
The beautiful sight is too much to handle. My balls are growing tight and
full and weighty. I start to pull out of her and she abruptly reaches down while
she comes and shakes, grabbing my cock at the base.
“No! Inside! Fill me with your cum, Arthur!”
Shock registers on my face. She tries to keep me there, my hard, thick
length gripped in her palm.
“Guin!” I growl, trying again to withdraw—
 She yanks my cock inside her until it hurts. Even as my thrusts stop, her
palm slides over my girth.
Grinding my teeth, I try to fight back the building pressure, the throbbing
—
And unravel when I stare into her greedy, piercing eyes. Cum floods her
tunnel, spewing from my cock in warm jets. My body tingles from the sheer
bliss of coming inside her, and she spasms at the same time, coming with me.
We lose ourselves together, heads rolling back on limp necks.
When I pull out, I’ve stuffed her so full of cum it drizzles out of her in
gushes of white, pouring out in a single long stream. We both watch me drip
out of her.
Finally, I let her body slide off the headboard, her feet flattening past my
knees onto the bedspread. We’re heaving with labored breaths, staring into
each other’s eyes, and meld together in a warm kiss.
Then she purrs near my ear. “That was four times.”
“One extra for good luck.”
Begrudgingly, after an indeterminable amount of time, I stand from the
bed and stuff myself away in my leathers. I’m still half-hard, and showing
quite clearly through my pants, but what am I supposed to do? I could fuck
Guinevere all fucking day, if the world around me would allow it.
“What’s next?” Guin asks, reclining on her side to watch me strap on the
rest of my gear, including Excalibur.
I give her a wry smile. “Breakfast,” I say. “I don’t know about you, but I’m
fucking famished after that.”
Her laughter is music to my ears, light and airy, as if the weight of last night
is no longer a burden to her.
Maybe I’ve fucked the burden away. If it was only so easy.
Our post-coital bliss vanishes as her brow slants and forms a knot above
the ridge of her nose. “We shouldn’t stay here, Arthur.”
“We won’t.”
She swallows hard. “We’ll leave today, then? I have a bad feeling about
staying too long. Queen Anna wants to kill you, and Lot will only humor us
for so long. Eventually, I think he’ll side with his wife.”
“I know.” I let out a heavy sigh and frown. I wish we didn’t have to speak
of backstabbing and death so soon after such a riveting experience.
Alas, Guin is right. She’s always right.
 “I’m sorry, little one. I fear we must stay until tomorrow morning.”
Her face brightens with fear. “What? Why?”
“I need to talk to my sister and Lot. Try to reason with them. We can’t leave
here until we have Lot’s guarantee he’ll support us. Otherwise, this has been for
naught.”
“You really think you can convince Queen Anna to throw her hat in the
ring for you?”
“I have to try. I think the best time for it will be this evening, at the feast
Lot has planned. That way, I can get them both together. Perhaps they’ll be
less guarded then.”
Guin bites her lip. I know that anxious expression. She doesn’t like this one
bit and, honestly, neither do I.
“It’s the only thing I can think to do.” I reach down to take her hands in
mine, then run my thumbs over her palms in slow circles, trying to calm her
nerves.
We need Leudonia’s army. Especially if we aren’t getting Listenoise’s, after
the debacle with Dindrane, which King Pellinore will surely see as an insult of
the highest order.
With a deep exhale, Guin nods. “Okay. Then we’ll stay one night longer.”
“Or until we get Lot’s promise.” Before she can open her mouth to argue, I
amend that statement. “If we can gain his guarantee sooner than the feast, we
will steal away tonight. I promise we won’t stay longer than we have to.”
She hesitates with a relieved nod.
“Now get up,” I say, “and get some fucking breakfast with me, before I
pound you into this bed all over again. We have to make it look like nothing is
amiss.”
Her eyes darken to jade. “They heard someone leaving the hall last night,
listening to them. Lot will be suspicious.”
“Then that makes both of us. But what’s a little suspicion among kings? We
should be used to it by now.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 36
Guinevere

We’re on high alert through the afternoon leading up to tonight’s feast. Our
group tries to stay as nonchalant as possible, but it’s difficult when there’s a
chance a dagger might slide into your back at any moment.
When the sun is at its zenith, signaling a scorcher of a day with the light
reflecting off the glassy black rock of the castle’s foundation, I tell the guys I
want to visit Dindrane.
We’re in the courtyard, eating a light lunch, strewn about the place like
loiterers.
Percival slides an apple slice from a knife into his mouth. “I don’t
recommend that, snoop.”
I frown, haughtily crossing my arms over my chest, and wait for an
explanation.
We eye a trio of soldiers who march by, and once they pass, it’s Gawain
who speaks up. “I agree with the sunflower.” His eyes bore holes into the
backs of the soldiers, giving them a wary look. “You want to do too much
good, little lark. Sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone.”
That’s not good enough for me. While I have Gawain’s attention, I change
subjects. “Where is your room located?”
He stands from the ground and bats a fly away from his face. “We already
went over this. Second level, eastern corridor, third door on the left.”
I shake my head. “That’s where I went last night to find you. It makes no
sense.”
Gawain glances over at Arthur, who grumbles something as he pushes
himself off a barrel. He marches in front of us, getting close.
Before the king can say anything, Lancelot chirps up from the corner of
the courtyard, where he’s sitting in the shade of an awning. “Could be magic.”
 If it was my world, I’d laugh that off as a joke. Here? It can’t be taken
lightly. Plus, seeing as Lancelot is the only proven demon in the group, his
suggestion holds more weight. He knows magic well, especially from being
Morgan le Fay’s prisoner for so long.
Arthur says, “Anna is not a magic user. Neither is Lot.”
Lancelot shrugs, folding his arms over his knees, which are drawn near his
chest. “Lot said Morgan was just here.”
“He also said she left through a shadow portal. Her specialty.” Gawain
sneers over his shoulder at Lancelot. “You’ve been quiet the entire time we’ve
been here. Maybe it’s for the best. What makes you speak up now?”
These two are definitely not doing well. They’re like a rubber band ready to snap. It’s
worrying. For obvious reasons, they don’t seem to be getting any closer.
Further apart, if anything.
I give Arthur a concerned glance, and he makes a little face, as if to tell me
not to worry about it.
Lancelot says, “Was just a suggestion, Sir Gawain. Morgan’s illusion magic
is strong. It’s possible she left an enchantment to befuddle us, which could still
be operational even after she left.”
“We might never know,” Arthur says, cutting off Gawain’s retort before he
can voice it. “All we need to do is make it through dinner. We should be
strategizing in preparation for it.”
I hop off the end of the hay bale in the wheelbarrow I’m sitting on. “Fuck
that. You guys have at it. I’m going to visit Dindrane, to make sure she’s
holding up okay.”
I’m not sure why I want to visit her. I guess it’s a gut feeling more than
anything. My heart tells me I need to make sure Dindrane isn’t losing her shit
because of everything that’s transpired over the past twenty-four hours.
She isn’t getting the grand welcome into Leudonia she hoped for.
The guys grumble and stand to their feet, dragging ass.
I pop my brow. “What’s this? I thought y’all were strategizing.”
“We’re obviously not going to let you go alone,” Arthur says with a small
frown. “We go where you go, little one.”
It makes my heart soar with joy. With a tiny smile quirking my lips, I say,
“Alrighty, then let’s roll. Percy, lead the way.”

† † †
Shit. She doesn’t even know.
The guys are outside the door with a few of Lot’s guards who are watching
Dindrane’s chamber. I’m in here with her, alone, and she’s smiling up at me
from the edge of her bed. Her hands wring nervously near her belly.
“I’m so glad the trek here went without problems,” she says. “You are a
strong woman to command such respect and admiration from the Knights of
the Round Table.”
I post up on the edge of a dressing cabinet, averting my gaze. This is so
freaking awkward. No one has told her shit since we arrived.
“I admire you, Lady Guinevere,” she says.
It doesn’t help that she’s so fucking nice, either. If she was a bitch, I
wouldn’t care as much about tossing her aside for the sake of our mission.
This, though . . . this sucks.
“That’s kind of you to say, Princess Dindrane, but I’m still learning the
ropes. This is all new to me, too.”
She smiles timidly, ducking her head.
I scratch the back of my head. “How has your stay been so far?”
“Oh, fine. I haven’t seen much of King Lot, but that’s okay. I know he has
to deal with getting Queen Anna in line before the feast tonight.”
“Ah, right . . .” I trail off, sucking in a breath. The next words come to me
before I can decide whether they’re smart to say or not. “Princess, can I ask
you a question? Do you, um, have any reservations about what’s happening
here? Surely you can’t be blind to the ramifications of your coupling with Lot.
It will cause an uproar.”
She nods deeply. “I know.” Then she shrugs. “It’s out of my control. I’ve
always been a piece on a game board. That’s the way of women here. I don’t
make these decisions, and all I can do is be glad I’m gone from my wretched
father. If I had to spend another day in Listenoise, I might have died.”
An icy fist wraps around my heart and squeezes. Not only is this awkward,
now it hurts. She’s just so hopeful, with that distant gaze and her big blue eyes.
She’s beautiful, like Percival. It almost feels like I’m talking to a more naïve
mirror image of my knight.
She adds, “I’m sure Queen Anna will understand in the end. I don’t plan to
take her place. I simply wish to bear Lot the heirs he needs, which might in
turn give me some meaning in life. I want children, Lady Guinevere.”
 I gnash my teeth together. “That’s totally understandable, Din, but you
know Lot already has heirs, yes? One of them is in my retinue right now.”
“Lot doesn’t see Sir Gawain or Sir Mordred as valid heirs, though. He told
me that.”
Then he’s lying to one of us, because the way it sounded yesterday, he wants nothing more
than to put the past behind them and give Gawain the reins once it’s his time.
My estimation of Lot—which was pretty high after last night’s dinner—is
starting to wane. It sounds like he’ll say whatever he needs in order to get
Dindrane to go along with this plan. These horny fucking old men. Well past their age
of dominant leadership, doing anything to stay relevant. “Are you planning on
attending the feast tonight?” I ask, hoping she might show a hint of reluctance
and nervousness.
She does the opposite. Her mouth widens into a grin, showing brilliant
white teeth. “Oh, yes! How could I not, my lady? It’s in my honor, after all.
I’ve never had a feast in my name.”
And you still won’t have one after tonight. The thought sours my mood. That’s it,
then. She’s clueless. Lot has kept her in the dark. She’s completely unprepared for the rude
awakening she’ll get this evening.
The sad part is I can’t bring myself to tell her what’s going to happen. I
can’t dash her dreams, when they’re so clearly written on her pretty, angelic
face.
I nod to her, trying not to look glum, and give her a strained smile. “Then I
look forward to seeing you tonight, Princess.”
Her smile remains as I leave the room.
My guys are huddled outside. I storm right past them, a scowl etching onto
my face.
“Guin?” Arthur asks, following quickly, worry in his voice.
“You were right,” I say to Gawain, shaking my head. “I should have left
well enough alone.”

† † †

The room is packed with dignitaries and nobles of Leudonia for the feast.
Everyone sits at the same long table where we first met King Lot last night.
What seemed lonely, sparse, and a bit sad then—due to the size of the table
and the single man sitting at the head of it—is now bustling, loud, and vibrant.
 Every chair is taken. There are over twenty VIP guests seated at the high-
backed chairs, making the room stuffy and cramped. The air is stagnant, filled
with the smells of people, firelight from the chandeliers and torches, and the
occasional wafting of yummy food from one of the three doors that leads to
the kitchens.
I wanted to keep a low profile coming in here, but I was thrust near the
head of the table. Probably because I’m one of only three or four women
here, besides Princess Dindrane and a couple of sparkling noblewomen. Or
because King Arthur and I are illustrious guests, and Lot wants to showcase us
like trophies.
Like Dindrane. A trophy. Here to replace the old one with a fresh new face. My face
twists with a grimace.
Something hard bumps my shoulder and I glance over at Arthur to my left,
sitting down the line from me. “Try to act like you’re having a pleasant time,”
he says, swooping his head low to whisper.
To my right, Dindrane beams, drinking up the party. She’s sitting closest to
the head of the table, where I presume King Lot and Queen Anna will sit. The
two royals of Leudonia have yet to make their appearance. Fashionably late. Lot
seems like the kind of guy who likes to make an entrance.
Everyone is dressed to the nines. The other four noblewomen, Dindrane
included, are in low-cut, hip-hugging gowns of glittering colors and shades.
The men are sharp in fashionable tunics and robes. Jewelry gleams everywhere
—rings on fingers, gold necklaces, clattering bracelets.
A low rumble of conversation has been rolling through the room like a
tidal wave ever since I sat down half an hour ago. It swallows everything up,
overwhelming my senses. It’s terribly noisy, with wine jugs being passed
around and chalices being clanked together. The wine is starting to spill over
on tables with all the toasting going on.
I blink and scan the table, trying to focus on any single thing. It’s
impossible. My heart starts to race as my eyes dart across unfamiliar faces.
Arthur puts a hand on my knee, under the table. “You’re okay, Guin. Just
relax.”
I want to yell, “Don’t tell me to relax! Aren’t the blinding white smiles and
sparkling jewelry and annoying voices starting to blend together and bury you?
Or maybe that’s just this stupid gown talking.” It’s fucking tight against my
ribs. A servant had left the forest-green number out for me two hours before
the feast.
I want to yell those things, but I don’t. The truth is, the longer Arthur’s
hand stays on my knee, rubbing gentle circles, the quicker I calm down.
My pulse levels out. The blood stops rushing in my ears. I take a deep
breath and nod firmly. “Thank you.”
It’s funny, because my group is the only one staying relatively quiet, though
Dindrane is interacting with Percival across from her, and he’s doing his best
to give her charming, genuine smiles.
I take a sip of wine to calm my nerves, and spray a look down the table. I
pick up snippets of conversations.
“ . . . where is this ceremonious bastard, anyway?” one man asks three seats
down and across.
A gray-hair answers with a laugh. “If I know my cousin, he’ll be watching
from a secret mirror like a damn voyeur. Timing his grand entrance just right.”
The people next to them break into laughter.
When one of the nobles catches my eye, I let out a nervous chuckle of my
own.
“That foreign girl is lucky,” a noblewomen says.
Abruptly bristling, I face that direction, then realize she’s giving eyes past
me to Dindrane.
“. . . being the apple of Lot’s eye. Does she know how many women would
kill to be in her position?”
I duck a little lower in my seat, trying to disappear because I feel
embarrassed. Arthur is right. This is no place to lose my cool. Not if we have to appease
Lot and his harem of sycophants.
“She looks to be eating up the attention just fine,” a nobleman replies, then
clinks glasses with her.
“Yes,” the noblewoman chirps with a haughty chuckle, “she’ll fit right in
among you vagabonds.”
“Lot better keep her happy. If she’s not careful, a line of suitors will knock
her door down.”
More laughter.
“Like you, Lord Talbot?” the noblewoman preens.
A shrug from Talbot. “I’d gladly do the honors first, though I know I won’t
be the last to think that way.”
 “You devil. You’re married!”
Another shrug. “So is Lot.”
Cackles and chortling.
Ew. Fucking gross. I’m stuck in a room full of thinly veiled, would-be rapists. Talking
in the open like this about Dindrane. They’re lucky Percival is too far to hear them.
“I hear Lot wanted to nix this whole dinner extravaganza,” a man next to
Talbot says, then slurps loudly on his wine. “Cold feet, as it were.”
“Pah! Nonsense, man,” Talbot answers. “We’ve been waiting two weeks for
this announcement, whatever it’s supposed to be. This feast has been the talk
of the town. He wouldn’t disrespect his supporters like that.”
“Yes, well,” the man continues, “my accomplice tells me Anna was the one
who urged him to put on a good face and stay the course, of all people.”
Feigned gasps come from a few nobles.
“Anna, a party in her own cuckolding?” Talbot blathers. “Now I’ve heard it
all. Just who is this ‘accomplice,’ Sir Belview? Don’t tell me it’s Lady Harris.”
Belview flushes red and frowns.
“Harris’ gossip is as noteworthy as her sense of etiquette. Did you see how
she gobbled up that pastry the other night like she was throating a horse’s
cock?”
Loud whoops of undignified laughter follow his crude jab.
I lean in to Arthur, looking out at Sir Belview. “These people are fucking
exhausting.”
He smirks. “I know, lass.”
Belview catches my eyes. “Is there something I can help you with, Madam
—”
“Don’t,” Arthur shoots at him. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t look at her.”
Something about Arthur’s stern face shuts Belview up, and the nobleman
blanches, nods, and turns back to his inane conversation.
A trill of excitement and warmth zings up my spine, and I shiver. Gotta love
this man. There is a reason I’m looking at Belview, though. Something he said
in all that bullshit caught my attention.
Queen Anna urging Lot to throw this party, when he was getting cold feet?
True or not, just the allegation is significant. That makes no sense. After how I
heard them arguing last night in secrecy, there’s no way Anna would support this dinner. She
might grin and bear it, but she’d never abdicate her throne or submit to a newbie like
Dindrane. She made that very clear yesterday.
 Servants arrive from the doors with trays of food piled high, and earn light
applause and cheers from the soon-to-be-drunk guests. Many of them are
already there.
Finally. Hopefully food will shut their flapping maws up. I have to admit, I’ve never
been the biggest fan of large gatherings. They’re just too chaotic and fake for
me.
While the servants mosey around the tables, adding to the chaos, Arthur
and I notice an armored guard walking behind us. The guard stops on the
other side of Dindrane and whispers over her shoulder, which makes me lean
over conspiratorially to listen.
“King Lot . . . presence . . . chamber.”
It’s all I can hear.
Dindrane stiffens, concern twisting her face. “Really?” she quips. “Already?
He hasn’t even shown himself yet.”
Based on her reaction, I fill in the blanks: King Lot requests your presence in his
chamber.
Out of my peripheral, I eye Arthur with concern.
“Yes, madam,” the soldier says, and then stands upright. He salutes lightly
and stands back.
Dindrane drains her wine, suddenly looking a bit flustered, and dabs her
lips with a cloth. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says to the table with a tight smile.
I twist in my seat to watch the guard escort her.
Still furrowing my brow, I turn back around and catch Lancelot across from
me at the table, staring at Dindrane and the guard behind me, where he has a
better vantage point. “Fireheart,” he murmurs, eyes flicking.
I follow his gaze, double taking—
And catch a glimpse of the patch on the side of the soldier’s chainmail
shirt: three diagonal stripes, with a single white line running through them
vertically.
My breath lodges in my throat. “That crest,” I mutter, gazing at Lancelot.
He nods, thinking the exact same thing, and his eyes darken.
“What’s wrong, Guin?” Arthur asks.
My eyes are shaking when they shoot to him—wide and unfocused.
“Arthur, something’s not right.”
The same crest worn by the kidnapping guards from Pengwern and Castle Chariot in
Sorestan. The emblem from my dream of King Ector, on his ring, and then marked into the
dirt near my campfire with Lance. I haven’t seen it in weeks now—certainly not
this far out from Sorestan or Sauvage.
My heart rate spikes again. Arthur is getting up from his seat before I can
finish my thought. When I try to stand, he puts a hand on my shoulder to
keep me seated. “Come with Lancelot in two minutes. We don’t want to raise
alarm.”
I grind my teeth, but nod.
Arthur juts his chin toward Kay across from him, and the big knight gets
up.
Gawain and Percival have noticed something is amiss. We’re antsy in
seconds flat.
Arthur and Kay disappear down the same door the guard and Dindrane
walked through.
My knees bounce incessantly under the table. I have no Arthur to calm me
down now, and I’m losing my shit as the seconds pass. The loud voices and
boisterous vibe of this room doesn’t help my anxiety.
“Fuck it,” I say, and jolt up from my seat. Lancelot does the same. It’s been
thirty seconds. Not two minutes, like Arthur requested.
We meet at the head of the table and try to casually walk toward the
direction of Arthur and Kay—
Except now there’s a guard standing in front of the closed door, moved
from a different position in the room once he saw Dindrane, Arthur, and Kay
disappear through this one.
I glance behind and notice we’re catching some eyes. Percy and Gawain are
right behind us, which means an entire third of the guests have just abruptly
gotten up and left the table in a hurry.
“Is there a problem, sir?” the guard blocking the door asks Lancelot. He
has his arms crossed over his crotch, in the defiant picture of a man not
wanting to let us pass.
Lancelot puts a hand on my leg, through the slit of my dress, and I jerk
from the suddenness. His hand trails up my thigh, catching the guard’s
attention. “My lady and I are feeling . . . frisky,” Lance says. He gives the guard
a knowing smirk. “We’d like to find somewhere more private.”
The guard matches his smirk, except it looks sickly and gross coming from
him. “Ah. I understand your predicament, sir, but this section of the castle is
closed for—”
 Lancelot finds the dagger I keep strapped to the inside of my thigh, pulls it
out, and steps inches away from the guard, pressing the blade between the
man’s leg. “Open the fucking door, lad. No, no, don’t look over my shoulder
and try to give a signal. Don’t look anywhere but at my face. Or do you want
to lose both your balls tonight?”
The guard shakes his head adamantly.
“Then open the fucking door. Without making a ruckus.”
With a nod, the guard turns, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.
Lancelot is right behind him, and then me, Percy, and Gawain—who closes
the door behind us and locks it. We’re in a narrow passage that appears to lead
to the kitchens. There’s a staircase to our left, a few feet away.
Pushed against the wall by Lance, forearm against his throat, the guard
stammers, “J-Just what do you think you’re doing? Do you have machinations
on my king’s life?”
“Where’s your diagonal stripe emblem?” Lancelot asks, searching his body
up and down.
“Huh?”
“Fuck,” Lancelot growls. He glances at me over his shoulder, then back to
the guard. “You have evil agents in your ranks. We aren’t them.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lancelot slams the butt of my dagger across the man’s forehead, knocking
him out cold. He gingerly lowers him to the floor, placing his crumpled body
in front of the door.
“Jesus, Lancelot,” I say.
“That should buy us some time,” Lancelot says, nudging the guard’s body in
the doorway. “Come on.”
We move toward the staircase—
And then a bloodcurdling scream splits the night.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 37
Guinevere

“Din!” Percival rasps.

Pounding comes at the locked door behind us, but we’re already to the
staircase, taking them two at a time. It’s fucking hard in this stupid dress, so I
hoist the hems over my knees to keep up with the knights.
Gawain overtakes the front of the group to lead us, yelling, “Where are we
going?!”
He wasn’t close enough to overhear the guard speaking to Dindrane at the
table. He’s even more confused than the rest of us.
“Your father’s chamber!” I scream from the back.
We make it to the second level of the castle and Gawain takes off at a
sprint down a hall to the right.
My thighs and ass burn from the uphill leap over the stairs, and my heart
slams against my ribs, but I manage to keep pace with the guys.
We wind through stuffy corridors, left, left, right, through a door, up
another short set of stairs. My throat is dry and parched with my heartbeat
lodged in there.
Just as we’re about to round another corner, I hear a voice—
“Yes, watch, you gamey whore. Watch what your future holds for you!”
Gawain is the first to turn the corner, then the rest of us. I barely have time
to register what’s in front of me over the broad shoulders of my knights.
The same guard who came to retrieve Dindrane has his arm draped over
her neck from behind, a dagger to her throat. They’re standing in an open
doorway off to the side, and he’s making her watch something inside the
room.
Based on the horrified expression on Din’s face, it’s nothing good.
“Can you feel my hard cock digging into your ass, slut? These pants aren’t
—” His head spins to us, realizing he’s not alone—
 Gawain’s dagger is already launching through the air.
It spins end-over-end and lodges into the man’s throat, inches from
Dindrane’s forehead.
She lets out another shriek as blood splatters over her face. The man
twitches upright and falls back, taking her with him to the ground.
We crowd the narrow space together—Percy and I to get to Dindrane,
Lancelot and Gawain to see what’s happening in the room.
When I see Lancelot and Gawain freeze in the doorway, aghast with cries
of dismay, my stomach tumbles. I slide onto my knees to grab Dindrane’s
floundering body as she squirms to get up from the dead guard’s grasp.
Then colors explode to my right and I twist my head to the door, gazing
past Gawain’s side—
To see a vision out of a nightmare.
A woman, who I can only assume is Queen Anna, stands stark naked, bent
over the side of a bed. Behind her, a green-skinned goblin, also naked, stands
on a chair and thrusts into her, gripping her wide ass and croaking a
monstrous sound.
Other wretchkin fill the large bedroom—at least seven of them—watching
intently, stroking their grotesque green cocks, and prancing in a ritual of lust as
they prepare to join the orgy of man and monster.
Blood is splashed across Anna’s pale face and bouncing breasts. She lifts
her hand and a dagger glints from the moonlight coming in from the window
behind her, bathing her and her knife in silver.
My brain short-circuits as I take in the last piece of the sordid scene. The
worst part of all.
King Lot is strung up naked to the headboard of the bed. He sits upright
with his arms crucified to the headboard by ropes, forming a T of his upper
body, facing us in the doorway. His head is drooped forward, chin and beard
against his chest, while his big belly drips with lines of blood in at least five
spots.
Anna cackles maniacally. “You want heirs, you big fucking buffoon?! Look,
my king—look what they’re doing to your precious wife! I’ll give you so many
fucking heirs!”
The king’s head lolls to the side, a grisly wheeze leaving his lips.
For a moment, we’re frozen in shock, mouths agape.
 Then Anna stabs wildly into Lot’s belly—two, three, four times—and blood
splashes all over her. She continues to cry out in a mixture of hysterical
screams and laughter, all while getting fucked by a wretchkin fiend from
behind.
Dindrane takes another look from the floor and promptly swoons,
becoming dead weight in my arms as she falls unconscious. I gently let her go.
“Mother!” Gawain screams, his cracking voice wrenching my guts.
A door bursts open on its hinges into the room, opposite us, coming from
another hallway.
Arthur streams into the room with Excalibur drawn. “Knights!”
His immediate action gets the rest of us moving.
Goblins put away their cocks and fumble for their weapons.
“Oh, look who has decided to join us!” Anna screeches, making sure to
give Lot another few jabs in the belly so she can keep bathing in his blood.
“Take them, my pets!”
Kay is in the room after Arthur, a confused bellow ripping from his lips as
he sees for the first time. He raises his axe high as a goblin charges him with a
sword.
Lancelot and Gawain rush in, drawing their weapons.
Percival leans down to check on me and Dindrane. His face is engulfed by
confusion, fear, and pain.
Over his shoulder, I see Anna pull herself off the goblin cock and
scramble onto the bed. She straddles Lot, lifts the dagger high, and stabs down
into his groin. “For taking him from me, you monster! You couldn’t be
satisfied with yours—you had to have mine!”
Shock rifles through me. Him? Mine? My brow furrows. When I go to my
hands and knees, I slip on the blood on the floor from the traitorous guard.
Percival helps me up with one hand while drawing his sword and turning to
face the carnage in the bed chamber.
“Anna! Sister, what is this?!” Arthur cries out. His sword flashes as he fights
off two goblins at once.
Kay decapitates one with a swing of his axe, and then grunts as he’s
stabbed in the side of the leg by a crude wretchkin blade.
A door explodes down the hall, from the way we came.
Four guards pour in, swords drawn.
“The king is in danger!” one of them yells.
 “Protect the king!” shouts another.
I don’t spot any diagonal stripe patches on their bodies. Are they good guys?
They swarm me and Percival—the last person in the hall—and point their
swords at our throats.
“Don’t move, you vagrants!” a guard shouts, spittle flying in my face.
Another guard sees what’s happening in the room and drops his sword. “By
all the gods and spirits!”
I raise my arms in surrender from the skittish soldier holding me hostage.
Then I find myself screaming, “Lancelot!”
In the room, my dark-haired protector twists, sees me and the sword
pointed at my throat, and drops his two blackened swords while he’s in the
middle of fighting a goblin. Black veins spiral up his neck through the opening
of his shirt. They spiderweb up his chin, consuming his face, as total blackness
pools in his eyes. He grows taller, body cracking, and dark fur covers his skin.
Wings burst free from his back with a wet squelching sound, knocking a
goblin aside when he beats them free.
The goblin flies into the window off to the side. The window explodes,
adding more pandemonium to the madness, and the goblin screeches as it flies
outside and down, down, down to the base of the castle.
Lancelot flies toward me, his sudden height and size taking up most of the
room. Books and shelves and tables are crushed and smashed aside. His body
slams through the frame of the doorway like a cartoon character, and suddenly
he’s inches from me, a breath of pure heat radiating from his maw.
The guard with the sword to my throat has one split second to toss a glance
over his shoulder at Lancelot—
Before dagger-length talons jut into his chest and out the other side of him.
Blood geysers as the man’s chest caves in and Lancelot pulls out.
My demonic knight moves down the hall, even though only one of the
guards had their sword trained on me.
He takes the next terrified soldier’s head in both giant hands and twists his
neck and head completely backwards with a sickening crack.
Lancelot drops the dead man and moves onto the third, taking a sword
across the forearm before ripping a jagged trail of claw marks through his
armor and chest.
The fourth guard, unarmed, pisses himself and tries to flee back the way he
came.
 Lancelot flies forward with a short puff from his wings, and rends the
man’s back open, dropping him.
The blood pooling on the tiles is up to my heels.
Lancelot spins on me. I freeze in petrified fascination, my heart leaping to
my throat. He studies me, head tilting curiously, and then jolts upright when he
hears the commotion of battle coming from the room.
With one last glance at me, he takes off running down the hall, in the
opposite direction.
“Lancelot!” I cry at my fleeing protector.
I’m torn between chasing him to make sure he doesn’t get into more
trouble and kill everyone in this castle, and helping my other knights.
I vie for the latter with a huff of exasperation and fear.
Bending down as I run, I swoop a discarded sword off the ground and
fling myself into the room and the ongoing battle.
Dark wisps of smoke and magic cloy through the air. I swing the sword
through it, just in case it’s some sort of shadow beast.
Only two goblins remain standing. The rest are strewn about the room,
naked and bleeding dark blood.
Kay is limping worse than usual with a grimace on his face; Percival wipes
sweat off his face and follows me into the room; Gawain nurses a drooping
arm; Arthur fights like a hellion, taking on the last two wretchkin alone.
Queen Anna’s hands rise above her head. She hops off the bed and slings
balls of swirling darkness at Arthur.
Gawain rolls and body-slams Arthur, taking the unsuspecting king down by
the legs—
Just as the dark energy explodes over their heads on a cabinet behind our
king, exploding in shards of wood and twisted metal.
Anna laughs, sounding so unhinged it makes my blood run cold. A sadistic
grin slices across her face, while her eyes gleam with the same purple-bruised
darkness of her magic.
Seeing she’s down to her last two goblins, she backs up to the window,
continuing to keep her hands over her head. The fetid, sulfur-smelling magic at
her fingertips keeps us hesitantly at bay.
She glances over her shoulder, outside and at least thirty feet down to the
courtyard of the castle. When she faces us once more, her eyes lock with
Arthur’s. Her smile widens, if it’s possible. “It’s been fun, brother.” Her voice is
disturbed and disturbing, the rasp of nails on steel.
Then she leaps out the broken window.
“Anna, no!” Arthur howls. From his knees, he reaches out futilely with his
free hand.
The two goblins follow her out the window.
I rush over to it, sliding on the blood, and poke my head through the
opening framed by shattered triangles of glass. A wince builds on my face as I
wait for the incoming thud far below on the courtyard—
But the ground itself opens up like the abyss, a chasm of shadowy
darkness, and swallows Anna whole.
It winks out of existence just as quickly—
The goblins behind her in the air screech and slam headfirst on the now-
solid ground, in heaps of green and black.
I let out a shocked, involuntary sound, and slap a bloody hand over my
mouth.
“Guin, what is it?” Arthur begs, climbing to his feet.
“She—a portal ate her up.”
Our eyes twist to Gawain as he approaches the bed where his father is
trussed up like a BDSM scene gone horribly wrong. He reaches a hand out
and touches Lot’s knee, croaking, “Father . . .”
“Dindrane . . .”
I spin to find Percival in the doorway.
Princess Dindrane is gone—no longer where I left her in the corner of the
hall next to the dead agent.
A burst of shrieks and clattering dishes rise up through the window, from
other parts of the castle.
Sounds like it’s coming from the dining room.
Arthur and I lock eyes.
“Lancelot,” we say in unison.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 38
Guinevere

Arthur and I barge into the dining room through a different door than we left
through. I’m not exactly sure what path we took to get here—we followed the
shouts of terror echoing down the halls, and the trail of blood on the floor.
I steel my heart and expect to walk into a bloodbath.
No one has died yet, though. The prattling noblemen and women aren’t so
haughty now. They’re up against a wall, huddled together, vying for hiding
positions behind each other. Two have fainted, including Lord Talbot—
Dindrane’s wanna-be rapist—and one of the women.
A dozen armed guards stand on the other side of the room and table,
swords out, their arms shaking with fear.
Sandwiched between the two groups is Lancelot, stalking back and forth
near the center of the table, his head on a swivel as he studies each group of
people, nobility and military alike. His wings are furled against his body. His
vicious claws drip blood across the floor and surface of the table as he paces.
He’s slightly hunched over, monstrous-looking and somehow hesitant to inflict
untold devastation on this room of warm bodies.
Thick tension rides the room.
I take a step forward from the door, pulling away from Arthur’s hand as he
takes my wrist to try and urge me behind him. My mouth opens—Lancelot
hasn’t seen us yet, facing the other way—and I nearly shout his name.
Then I stop, realizing no one in this room knows the identity of the demon
yet. Shouting his name for everyone to hear would only put us in more hot
water.
“That’s enough!” I boom, my voice rising over the quavering, hushed
voices.
Lancelot recognizes my timbre and wheels to lock his black eyes with mine.
His mouth peels back, showing jagged fangs, and he lets out a low hum of a
growl.
I freeze. Try my best not to wilt like a dying flower. I have to show strength.
What do I say? “Heel,” like a dog? “Come, boy?”
Instead of saying any of that, I simply raise my hand toward him and hope
to God I know what I’m doing. My fingers curl in a come-hither gesture. I
repeat, “That’s enough,” in a lower, softer tone. “You’ve done enough.”
Lancelot bows his head submissively. His giant frame deflates, and he
strides toward me and Arthur.
“W-What is that abomination?!” Sir Belview yells, thrusting a finger toward
Lancelot.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that, Belview,” I say, “lest you want to lose
everything attached to that finger.”
The color drains from his face. “You’re . . . a sorceress.”
“I am not.”
“Then why does the monster come to you like a hound to heel?”
This asshole’s gotten unreasonably brave since Lancelot showed his back to
him. He’s stepped out from the other nobles, squaring his shoulders in some
form of defiance.
“He is my protector,” I say, “but I do not control him.”
“What does he need to protect you from?”
Queen Anna? Goblins? Double-crossing Leudonian guardsmen?
“Everyone,” I snarl.
One of the guards steps forward, sword still drawn. “What has happened
here? Why is the monster’s claws covered in blood?”
Arthur takes the reins, sheathing Excalibur with a rasp of metal. “King Lot
has been murdered in his chambers.”
Gasps and voices of despair ripple through the room.
“Silence!” Arthur commands, palm flying high.
“You killed our king!” a noblewoman cries.
“Murderers!” says another.
Arthur shakes his head solemnly. “We were not the instigators of this
tragedy. His death affects me as much as it does you. He was my father’s
greatest ally, after all.”
“How are we supposed to believe you?” Belview challenges. “We saw your
group rise from the table and leave the room. And then . . . that scream. I’ll
never forget it as long as I live.”
 I say, “You think we had time to get from the ground floor to Lot’s
chamber on the third level, when that scream sounded half a minute after we
left?”
I’m hoping they’ll use logic to base their accusations, but I know deep
down it’s a lost cause. They need someone to blame, and we don’t have any
answers right now. Everything is still in flux and confusing as hell.
“You tell me, witch,” Belview says with flared nostrils.
“Careful, Sir Belview,” Arthur warns.
“Or what? You’ll kill me, too?”
With a heavy sigh, Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. The tension is
back in full, even with Lancelot staying quiet in the corner, watching everyone
like he wants to eat them.
I thought I had deescalated the situation, but the aristocrats aren’t making it
easy. Honestly, I don’t blame them. They need an enemy to pin this on. I
should have thought of the ramifications and consequences before barging in
here with Arthur, but I was in a hurry to try and stop the bloodshed before
Lancelot slaughtered the whole castle like he did at Castle Chariot.
A door off to the side opens and Kay, Percival, and Gawain march in.
They’re scuffed with battle wounds, a bit of blood and torn clothes, scratches
and bruises.
I haven’t ever been happier to see them. Arthur and I can’t finagle this
situation on our own.
Gawain trudges past the others, peering at the three triangulated parties
through narrowed eyes—nobles, guards, us. He walks to the center, to the long
table, and slaps a patch of ripped cloth onto it. Pointing at it, he says, “This is
the emblem of the party responsible for my father’s death. The guard who
came to retrieve Dindrane wore it on his side, and we’ve seen its like before.”
Some of the guests inch forward to examine it.
I don’t need to. I already know what it looks like, with its diagonal-and-
straight stripes. The fucking thing has been a mysterious plague ever since I
stepped foot out of Camelot.
“Who does this belong to?” Belview asks, lifting it, speaking for the other
fifteen nobles. He stands opposite the table from Gawain.
I clench my jaw and rack my brain. It doesn’t take long. Understanding rips
through me and I nod to myself, seeing it all clearly for the first time. Only I
can deduce this puzzle, based on what I’ve heard tonight and prior to this
evening, and what I’ve learned in secret from Merlin.
The “guards” who wore this crest and kidnapped me from Pengwern . . . who did they
bring me to Castle Chariot to see?
Merlin told me she can watch his dreamspeaking from afar, which means she could have
left that drawing as a warning in the dirt.
The dark, shadowy magic and portal used tonight for Anna’s escape . . . that unhinged
laughter and sex . . . the raunchy goblins . . .
The most damning truth is what Anna said while she murdered Lot: “You
took him from me, monster. You weren’t satisfied with your own. You had to have mine.”
I know, without a doubt, who she was talking about. And I’m the only
person in this room who would understand. You took Mordred from her. Lot took
her son from her, to raise as a potential heir in Leudonia, and it broke her heart.
The nobles here want an enemy to pin this on?
Fine, I’ll give them one.
“Morgan le Fay is the enemy you’re looking for,” I announce. “She is
responsible for King Lot’s death.”
Everyone’s head whips over to me.
“That patch,” I say, pointing, “signifies troops working in her secret army.”
Arthur’s brow furrows, as if he wants to ask, “How do you know this to be
true? What do you know that I don’t know?” But his expression swiftly
changes, the lines flattening out on his forehead. Because he knows I’m right.
He can piece it together just as easily as I can.
Arthur might not know about Mordred’s true parentage yet, but he knows
Morgan le Fay is a powerful sorceress and shape-shifter.
His upper lip peels back in a snarl and he joins my side. “Lady Guinevere is
correct. To the naked eye, it appeared Queen Anna killed her husband.”
More gasps of shock and dismay. Someone whispers, “Wouldn’t blame
her,” though I’m not sure who it is.
“Once she jumped out the window from the third story and disappeared
into a shadow portal on the ground, well, that confirms Lady Guinevere’s
accusation.” The king turns to us, facing his Knights of the Round Table. He
looks to Gawain last, his brow softening. “That was not my sister Anna, my
friends. That was Morgan le Fay in her stead.”
Then what does that mean for Anna? What happened to her?
Morgan being here just a few days before us helps confirm my belief.
 “Fucking sorcery,” Kay growls.
Percival nods, not seeming to pay much attention—indifferent either way.
Fuck, I forgot Dindrane is missing. We need to find her. Fast.
Gawain gives everyone a solemn nod. “My aunt has always held a certain
wicked disposition toward the rest of my family.” He sweeps his hand out at
the scared group of gathered nobles. “Everyone here knows it to be true.”
“So what the fuck do we do now?” Sir Belview asks, throwing his arms up.
“Leudonia is kingless and more vulnerable than ever. Listenoise could march
on us in a matter of days, if we’re not coordinated.” He turns to the other
nobles. “I say we put our trust in Mordred and hope he can offer us assistance
against King Pellinore.”
Some of the lords and ladies start nodding, murmuring to each other.
Gawain’s voice is a dagger in the dark. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Belview spins round, stammering once he sees the look on Gawain’s face.
It’s a look I know all too well, and even now, it gives me goosebumps.
“You would place trust in a man—my brother—who is known to consort
with the same woman who just killed your king? Are you blind? Do you not
see what Morgan le Fay is planning with this chaos and death? She wants us
confused. At each other’s throats.”
Belview places his hands on his hips and tilts his head. “Rather than lob
insults at me, Sir Gawain, why don’t you speak your mind?”
My dark-haired knight glances at us, his friends, over his shoulder. His dark
eyes smolder in the light of the chandelier hanging over the table. The last face
he looks at is mine, and I give him a tiny, almost-indiscernible nod.
He clenches his jaw tight and faces the soldiers and the nobles. His palms
fall flat on the table as he leans over to speak to everyone, personally, with the
way his voice seethes.
“I am my father’s son. You all know that. I have shirked the responsibility
of my birthright for many years, but now claim my status as heir-apparent.
After tonight’s catastrophe, I find myself in the unenviable position as King of
Leudonia. As your king, I declare we will not be joining the Usurper of
Camelot and his wicked sorceress. Leudonia’s forces will be joining the True
King of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon, and his Knights of the Round Table.
Herald the word across the realm, friends. My word is final.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 39
Lancelot

I wake in a bed of fluff, eyes crusty and head pounding. I’m naked, sore, and
let out a groan as I slowly sit up with my hand to my temple.
The sight of Guinevere sitting beside my bed makes my heart do back flips.
Butterflies flutter in my belly when she smiles at me.
“You’re awake.”
I swallow hard through my parched throat. She hands me a glass of water,
and I drain it with loud gulps. When I look into her endearing eyes, she
reaches over to wipe a trickle of water from my chin.
“What happened, fireheart?” I ask, my voice croaky. “Please tell me I didn’t
do—”
“You saved me, Lancelot. As usual. Your beast took over when he saw a
man with a sword to my throat.”
“Then I’m glad. You know I would do anything to protect you, love.” I dip
my head in shame. “How many . . . how many people did I kill this time?”
“Four. I think. The others are still roaming the halls of the castle, to make
sure.”
I give her a glum nod, my eyes sinking.
“Lancelot. Raise your chin. Don’t look at this as a weakness. You did what
you were oath-bound to do.”
Her green eyes glitter in the late-night glow of a candle on a nightstand
next to her chair. I get lost in them, and wonder, How can she be so casual about
this? How can she still look at me with those captivating eyes, and not see a monster?
I’ve already apologized for lying to her in the past. For leaving her. For
showing my true nature. I’m ready to grovel all over again, every time this
happens. What else can I do?
After a moment of holding her gaze, I realize she doesn’t want that from
me. She wants my self-pity to end, so we can move forward. If she can forgive me,
perhaps I can forgive myself, too.
“You can’t help who you are, Lance.”
I choke back a lump in my throat. “Who ever thought you would be the
wisest, most tempered member of our group?”
She chuckles, sitting back, and that laughter is everything. When I ask her
to fill me in on what happened, she lets out a heavy sigh and explains in
perfect detail.
It sounds horrible. The last thing I remember is leaving the dining table
earlier tonight, holding a dagger to a man’s balls, and threatening him. Then
the red curtain fell and consumed me with darkness.
“Kay took a sword to his leg,” she says. “It’s no worse than other wounds
he’s taken in my name. He’ll be fine. Bitching for a while, no doubt, but fine.”
I give a weak smile.
“You also took a slice across the forearm while transformed,” she adds,
pointing to the bandage on my left arm.
“It’s nothing.” I glance down at the wound. I don’t even feel the pain. It’s
nothing compared to the trepidation inside my body, running rampant. “What
about Gawain? Now that he’s the self-proclaimed king, what is his plan?”
“His plan is to mobilize the Leudonian soldiers and conscript them to our
army.”
“Easier said than done,” I scoff, sitting back in my oversized pillow.
“He’s willing to dig into Lot’s formidable war chest to pay the soldiers more
than his father before him.”
“That should help. There will still be attempts on his life, I fear.”
“There have been attempts on all our lives, Lance. We’ll take them as they
come. Plus, I doubt we’ll be staying here long. King Arthur’s name still holds
relevance around here. He’s trying to settle the situation with the nobles as we
speak. I have no doubt he’ll succeed, once the people understand how terrible
Morgan le Fay truly is.”
“Yes . . .” I trail off. “I wish we had something more substantial to help
gain us support.”
“So do I. We’re working with what we have.”
I run a finger over the scar nicked at the edge of my chin. When I look
over to Guin, she’s studying me. “Do you ever think he’ll forgive me, fireheart?
Gawain? For what I’ve done to his brothers?”
 She exhales deeply and puts her hands on her knees. “He knows you killed
them protecting me. Sooner or later, he’ll have to reconcile that fact. I’ll be
honest, I don’t know if your relationship will foster in the way you might want
it to. But as long as you both fight for me, and love me, then I think you two
will be fine. You’ll have to be.”
My lips curve into a crooked smile. “Is that a fact?”
“Yeah,” she says with a roguish glint in her eyes. “Because I’ve already told
you guys: I won’t be forced to choose. Either my oath-bound mates stand
together as one, or we all perish. It’s the only way.”
“Right.” I nod slowly, absorbing her words. “I just hope Gawain
understands that.”
“He does. As wicked as he may act at times, he cherishes me, Lancelot.
Besides, he’s going to be so busy the next couple days with the kingdom. I
doubt he’ll have time to hate you.”
I bark a laugh. “That man always finds time to hate.”
She joins my laughter. It’s a sour sound, but at least it’s something.
Guin reaches out and puts her hand on top of mine, rubbing softly over
my knuckles. “Maybe you should talk to him.”
“I’ve already tried, lass. You know how that went. Perhaps it’s better to let
bygones be bygones until I find a better opening. It’s too painful for him here
—the birthplace of his brothers and the place he once called home.”
She shrugs. “I don’t think Sir Gawain ever truly called Leudonia home. But
if that’s what you think is best, then I won’t fight it.” She tilts her head, and I
hate the look of pity she gives me. “I want you to thrive, Lancelot. I don’t
want you wallowing in the corners and shaming yourself while we’re here. I
need you just as much as any of the others—your wisdom, your prowess, your
love.”
I wince when I move my bandaged arm to salute with a fist against my
chest. “And you have it, my Ever Queen. Always.”
“Good. Then you should get your rest. I have a feeling we’ve got a long
couple days ahead of us.”
“Haven’t all the days been long?”
“Too true.”
I glance to my left, to the open space of the mattress. “Will you . . . join me
and sleep beside me tonight? The bed is big enough for both of us.”
 She rolls her eyes and laughs. “You won’t be getting any rest if that
happens, sir.”
“The wicked aren’t afforded the luxury of rest, ma’am.”
She chuffs and stands from her chair, then walks to the other side of the
bed and drops her gown to the floor. I gape at her perfection, before she says,
“Very well. How can I deny my noble savior whatever he wants as a reward for
saving me?”

† † †

I feel much better by morning. Turns out Percival has become quite the able
healer with Baucillas’ absence. He’s taken up the mantle of surgeon and
bandager with aplomb.
We’ve had a lot of wounds for him to practice on.
Fucking Guinevere deep into the night also does wonders for my mood
and disposition. It always has.
When I wake and look around the room for my clothes, I don’t find them.
Then I remember they were shredded after shifting into my demon form. And
no one thought to leave me any spares.
I put my hands on my hips, standing naked in the center of the room. Is this
one of your little games, my bratty queen?
Shrugging, I leave the room and wander the halls. I could have thrown the
bedsheets around my shoulders or waited for a servant or Guin to arrive to
help find me some clothes, but the wafting breeze through the cold castle feels
nice in the morning. The sun is already out and signaling a hot day. Might as
well air myself out while I can.
I pass a couple guards marching through the halls and tip my chin to them.
“Good morning.”
They look at me like I’m mad. I don’t miss the way the female guard’s eyes
linger on my swinging cock, and when I give her a smirk she flushes like the
sun and glances away. That’s when I notice the male’s eyes have been focused
on my manhood even longer than her.
Guin doesn’t want me wallowing or shaming myself ? Well, I guess a nude stroll through
the castle is a good way to rebuild my confidence.
Once I’m past them, I hear the female guard murmur, “Fuckin’ hell, right?
That Lady Guinevere is the luckiest bitch in the realm.”
 I snort and make my way to the nearby stairs. At the bottom, familiar
voices filter in from the room to my right. I push my way in through double-
doors and stand there with my arms crossed over my chest.
Eyes veer in my direction, one after the other—Arthur, Guin, Percival, Kay,
even Gawain, who sits on a high-backed chair across from the others.
“Avalon save us, man,” Arthur says, head reeling, “we didn’t call any horses
to join the meeting.”
I snort with a small smile. “Oh, does the King of Camelot find himself
lacking in comparison?”
“He does not,” Arthur replies.
“He certainly does not,” Guin echoes. She’s standing next to a small round
table, face burned pink and getting redder by the second.
Seeing the fluster on her cheeks makes my cock twitch.
“Hey!” she says, wagging a finger in the air. “No, no, no. We’re having a
meeting. You need to find somewhere to put that elephant trunk.”
My eyebrows lift, a smirk curling my lip. “I have an idea where I can put—”
She slaps a palm to her forehead. “That came out wrong. Put it somewhere
outside this room. Preferably in pants.”
“Is that really preferable, my queen?”
She lets out a long breath with her cheeks puffed out. “Boys are wild,” she
mutters, turning away.
Percival says, “You have a beautiful, impressive endowment, Lancelot, but
it’s a bit distracting. If you want to join us—”
“Distracting to you, dear Percival?”
“Yes.” His cheeks flush like Guinevere’s. “No wonder Morgan le Fay
wanted you around forever. Or the little snoop.”
“Enough,” Gawain barks from his chair behind them. He stands. “What are
you doing, Lancelot? We’re having a serious meeting. Percival’s sister is
missing. My father is dead. I have a kingdom I need to get in order, fast, and it
doesn’t help when you barge in here dragging a dead python behind you.”
I flare my nostrils to keep from busting up, and bow my head as I back out
toward the door. I’m so tempted to say, “Oh, I assure you, there’s nothing
dead about this python,” but he’s right, I’m being childish and—
Snorting laughter comes from Guin. It starts with her shaking shoulders,
then dominoes to Percival, Kay, even Arthur. When Gawain scowls at Guin,
she tosses her arms up. “What?” she laughs cheerily. “It’s the way you said it,
Gawain. Sorry. I’m sorry for laughing.” She tries to scowl, but it just breaks
into another smiling, laughing face. “Scowling. I’m—grr—I’m putting on my
scowly face, Gawain.”
The others are still chortling, just as childish as I am.
“It is quite a statement piece,” Kay rumbles through his jiggling belly-laugh.
He’s not embarrassed to stare, which in turn makes me a bit embarrassed.
“It’s because I’m slender,” I say, nodding. “Makes it look . . . well, you
know. I’m sure if you lost a few inches up top, you’d gain a few inches down
below.”
Kay steps toward me in challenge. “I promise you I don’t need to add any
inches.”
Guin lets out a strangled, annoyed sound. She stares up at the ceiling,
raising her hands to the heavens. “Oh my God, can we not compare cocks right
now? Jesus Christ, you guys are like toddlers. Gawain—sorry, King Gawain—
tell Lancelot what’s been going on. I just can’t with you guys.”
Gawain lifts his chin in a defiant pose. “Not until he finds a scabbard for
his loose greatsword, lark.”
I point at her. “It’s her fault I’m like this, you know. She left me upstairs,
with empty balls and an emptier closet.”
“For shame, little one,” Arthur scolds, his voice serious. “You left the man
high and dry without a pair of trousers or a wheelbarrow to lug his package
around in?”
Percival and Kay die laughing, and Guin marches past us, trying her hardest
to keep the blushing smile from her face. As she whooshes by me, she raises
two middle fingers over her shoulders and says, “I’m so done with y’all.”
“You can’t leave, little lark,” Gawain announces, and Guin freezes in the
doorway with her back to us, before she can grab the handles of the two
doors.
Slowly, she turns, propping her hands on her hips. “Oh? I can’t, can I?”
“Not in my castle.” Gawain gives her a devious smirk. “King’s orders.”
She challenges him with a wicked, beautiful smirk of her own, slowly
gliding back into the room. “Oh . . . he’s a hotshot now that he took daddy’s
throne, is he?”
“Sure am.” Gawain rises from the chair and closes the gap between them.
I furrow my brow as I watch them get closer and closer, the heat between
them like a warm breeze of summer air. The tension has grown hot and heavy
real fast.
Finally, when they’re inches apart, I clear my throat.
They look over, momentarily snapped out of their lusty advance.
“Fine,” I eke out, “I’ll find some pants.” I wander out of the room, flexing
my ass, muttering aloud, “I could have sworn the naked guy would be the one
getting the action . . .”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 40
Guinevere

When Lancelot returns fully clothed, my heart sinks. Not just because I
wanted to stare at his perfect, corded body all day, but also because it means
the lighthearted joking is over for now, and I’m not sure when we’ll see it
again.
I’m not actually angry at what happened when he waltzed in here with his
stupidly big dick flapping in the breeze. That kind of banter is rare, and I’ll
take it whenever I can, especially when we’re in the middle of some hardcore,
serious shit like planning a royal funeral, a rescue mission, and an invasion.
Hell, it was the first time in ages I’d seen Gawain and Lancelot interact in
any way other than lobbing threats at each other.
We huddle around the map and small circular table. Gawain takes the lead,
since this is his kingdom now. To think, I have three kings in my entourage now.
“Good,” he begins, “now that we have all the snakes in their enclosures, we
can talk.”
Honestly, he seems lighter since his dad died. Not gonna delve too deep into that
one. I shoot a wry smirk over at Lancelot after Gawain’s comment, and he
catches my eye.
“We’ve placed a herald in the city, offering a reward to anyone who has
information on Princess Dindrane’s whereabouts,” Gawain continues.
Lancelot puts a hand on Percy’s shoulder, with a sympathetic tilt to his
brow. “We’ll find her, my friend.”
Percy bows his head. “Thank you, snake wrangler.”
I bury a laugh. Guess we’re not over the juvenile jokes yet. It has to be a
smooth segue, and I can’t start laughing, or else everyone else will follow. I
have that effect on the guys, and I have to say I love it.
Gawain clears his throat. “In a matter of days, I suspect we’ll have a
stronger Leudonian military force than even my father could boast.” He taps
his finger on the map where Castle Rock sits. “More heralds have been
dispersed to recruit soldiers in the city surrounding Castle Rock, and the
outlying villages. I’m offering obscene amounts of coin for anyone who joins
us. Luckily, King Lot had an abundance of that.”
“Thanks to his wars alongside Uther,” Arthur mutters.
“Undoubtedly.” Gawain eyes the high king. “I suppose I can’t expect a
repayment on my investment for helping you retake Camelot.”
They give each other sardonic smiles.
Arthur says, “Unlikely.”
“To be expected, my liege. But if you plan to claim half of Lot’s treasury in
the name of King Uther, well, it’s not going to happen.”
Arthur laughs. “Lot’s coffers are yours. As Camelot’s are mine.”
“Isn’t Camelot broke?” I chirp.
“Shush, little one.”
We all snicker, except Arthur.
Gawain drags his finger from Leudonia, west, where the shore meets the
country of Gorre. Morgan le Fay’s home. “We’re still awaiting word from
Tristan and Iseult in Hibernia. The days are waning when they said they’d
return, so we get to see how true to their word they are.”
“They’ll come,” I say firmly. “I know they will.”
“Your trust flies much higher than mine does, little lark.”
“We have to assume they can find a safe landing zone for the soldiers
they’re bringing,” Kay says, “outside Morgan le Fay’s scope of terror.”
Gawain nods. “I doubt my aunt is in Gorre much these days, patrolling the
shores. She’s in Camelot with my brother, and here. If all goes well, Tristan
and Iseult will be through the country headed here before she even finds out
they’ve landed. That’s presuming your scouts are able to locate them when
they land, to tell them where we are.”
“The scouts of Sauvage are the best in the realm,” Kay snaps, his voice
clipped. “If Tristan and Iseult bring an army across the Manks Sea, they’ll find
them.”
“Right.” Gawain doesn’t argue with the huge knight.
I slap the southern section of the map, where Camelot is. “We’re forgetting
the elephant in the room.”
“No,” Arthur says, “Lancelot is right here.”
I snort a quick laugh. “No, you ass. Camelot.”
 Gawain holds a hand out. “Patience, little lark.”
“Not my strong suit.”
“This war is developing into a southern versus northern conflict. With a
few outliers, our enemies in Camelot control everything south of there,
including Kernow and Lyonesse.”
“Plus Sorestan, Estrangore, and Gorre,” Percival says, pointing along the
coast west and up from Camelot.
Gawain frowns. “I said a few outliers, sunflower.”
“That’s more than a few outliers in the northern region fighting against us.
That’s three fucking kingdoms. Not to mention Listenoise is still anyone’s
guess.”
Arthur says, “We still need to try and convince your father to help us,
Percival. Now that his devilish plan involving Princess Dindrane has gone
awry here.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get close enough to speak with him
again, my king.” He bows his head in sadness or shame. Maybe both.
I reach across the table and put my hands on Percival’s knuckles, which are
palms-down on the edge of the table. When he looks up from his defeated
sag, I give him a kind smile. “We’ll do what we can, Percy. All is not lost yet.”
We fall silent for a few minutes as we study the map and our predicament.
Gawain keeps tapping the table, as if he wants to say more.
I ask, “Do we have an accurate estimate of the size of our army, when it’s
all said and done?”
Arthur grunts and shakes his head. “Too many variables still on the board.
If Iseult can procure another three or four hundred from her father in
Hibernia, that will bring hers and Tristan’s company to around five hundred
soldiers. Add the same number from Sauvage, and maybe twice that again
from Leudonia.”
“Plus whatever rebels Baucillas, Sir Lamorak, and Lady Freya can muster up
in Camelot, don’t forget,” Kay says.
Chewing my lip, I look up at Arthur. “So you’re saying two thousand
fighting men and women? Give or take?”
Arthur bobs his head left and right. “Sure.”
“God.” I swipe a hand over my face. “That doesn’t seem like enough.”
A tremor runs through Arthur’s chin. “It’s a lot more than what we had a
month ago. Six, if I remember correctly.”
 The other guys chuckle. I don’t know how they can be so unperturbed
hearing this. I’m freaking out over here, thinking that no matter what we do, it
won’t be enough. I guess it’s because they’re trained warriors and are used to
fighting, oftentimes with fewer numbers than their enemies.
Whatever we do, I can’t let Arthur challenge Mordred to a duel, like he
suggested earlier. I think Arthur almost caught the fear in my face when that
suggestion was posed.
I know if a duel happens, it will be to the death, and that’s exactly how the
prophecy of Mordred and Arthur killing each other will get fulfilled. I just
know it.
I’m trying so hard to find a way around this freaking prophecy. Trying to
change their fates. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do if that is what’s
required for the curse to end. I can’t let Arthur die. I have to do what I can to stop it.
And if that means the curse and cycle live on forever? Well, so be it. We
can let Camelot die and start a new Round Table somewhere else. Merlin can
get his ass unborn and vanish into thin air once he’s no longer able to fight
against the Rot.
I know I’m being stubborn and selfish when I think like that. I’m still trying
to figure out other possibilities as the days go by, but each passing day draws
us closer to an inevitable showdown with Mordred and Morgan le Fay.
“Our army must be about quality, not quantity, little lark,” Gawain says,
ripping me back to the present.
I blink at him. “Tell that to the hundred drunk peasants we acquired from
Pengwern.”
“They will be important for our infantry unit. Every soldier serves a
purpose, Guin. Don’t forget that.”
I take in a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Sorry.”
This is so freaking stressful.
Arthur says, “Right. Then let’s discuss what we’re up against. We have—”
A knock raps at the doors, turning our heads around.
Gawain steps away from the map. “Who is it?”
A soldier bounds in and pushes a dirty, grimy man in tattered rags in front
of Gawain. “This man claims to know something.”
“Y-Yes, well met, s-s-sire.” He’s middle-aged, probably younger than Arthur
but looks twice as old. Poor guy. He smells bad, and there’s mud and muck all
over him.
 I can’t help but feel awful for him. I forget how hard this medieval era is for ninety-
percent of the damn population. Arthur and the knights are the lucky, privileged ones, even
with their talks of war and strategizing and kingdoms.
King Gawain doesn’t share my sympathy. He folds his arms, standing over
the kneeling man. “What do you have for me?”
“I-Information, sire. Regarding the P-P-Princess Dindrane.”
Percival shoves his way to the front. “Well? Speak!”
I put my hands up. “Guys, let him catch his—”
“Will I get my reward?” the man asks.
“If your intelligence proves true, yes,” Gawain says with a firm nod. “It will
change your life.” He crouches in front of the peasant, getting eye-level with
him. “If I find you’re lying, though, your life will change in a much different
way.”
“Gawain!” I yell, but everyone’s ignoring me.
The man isn’t offended. He stands, hunched, and his dishwater mustache
twitches. “I saw her leaving the city in the dead of night last night.”
“How late?” Percival asks.
“After supper hours, sire.”
That works, timeline-wise.
“Where was she going?”
“East. On horseback. Riding hard. Hood over her face.”
“How do you know it was her?”
The man gives Percival a little grin. “Does she look anything like you, sire?”
Percy frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hard to hide those long, pretty blonde locks, sire. ‘Specially with the wind
blowing them all about on horseback. Don’t get too many who look like you
around Castle Rock.”
Percival analyzes the man’s face for any signs of deceit—a twitch, a smirk, a
smile.
After a beat, Gawain says, “Very well, we will investigate. Soldier, take him
back where you found him.”
The man’s face falls. “W-What about my reward?”
“After we investigate,” Gawain growls. “Stay close to Castle Rock.”
The soldier takes out the bumbling peasant and we huddle up at the table.
“Do we believe him?” I ask.
 Gawain shrugs. “He has every reason to lie, considering the coin we’re
offering. But commoners aren’t fools. They know the repercussions of lying
about something like this. It’s tantamount to treason.”
“Why would she be going east?” Percival blurts, his thin brow a straight line
of concern. “To Listenoise?”
Arthur drums his fingers on his elbow, his chin resting on his knuckles.
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Should we waste four days exploring this venture? Or send scouts to
check it out?”
“It’s not a waste if we find Din safely,” Percy snaps. “I need to be there to
see her. We can’t rely on scouts we don’t know for this.”
“Exactly. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. If we go, we aren’t
guaranteed to find her, and might waste time. If we don’t go, we aren’t
guaranteed to ever see her again, or learn if the man’s information is true.”
“I say we go.” My words come out fast.
It’s honestly no decision.
Everyone looks at me.
Kay says, “We could split u—”
We turn to him like a pack of angry wolves.
He raises his hands. “Never mind. Stupid idea.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say. “Gawain staying here to shore up his kingdom, while
some of us go with Percy to find Din. Except we aren’t doing that anymore.
No splitting up.”
“Right . . .” Kay drawls, “. . . which is why it’s a stupid idea.”
I smirk. “Fine. Dumbass.”
He laughs. “Careful, little lamb.” His eyes flash in that glorious amber hue,
and I nearly melt in front of him. He is a king, after all, and kings always get
what they want.
Arthur sighs. “It’s settled, then. Guin decided for us.”
“Doesn’t she always?” Lancelot says.
Arthur purses his lips. “Do you have a problem with that, snake wrangler?”
Lancelot snorts. “Not in the least.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 41
Guinevere

We cut the trek to Listenoise down from two days to one and a half. Partly
because we’ve ditched the carts, opting to take only horses, including a spare if
we find Dindrane.
After eating and wrangling the speediest, most resilient horses from the
stablemaster at Castle Rock, we hit the road with a vengeance before
morning’s end. Commoners clear the streets as they hear our stampede of
clopping hooves on the cobblestones. We go flying out of the city.
It feels amazing to ride again, especially in the clean, open air of the
Leudonian countryside, with the wind blowing my hair everywhere. Knowing
what I know of Camelot’s situation, if I had to choose anywhere to live in
Logres, it would be somewhere here or in Listenoise. The climate is temperate,
and the wind is brimming with sea salt.
The sun bears down on us through a sky mottled with puffs of clouds. We
ride hard and fast, more than doubling our speed from our first go-around. At
night, we give the horses long breaks and let them eat well, grazing the
bountiful grass that blankets the rolling hills of this land.
I’ve decided not to name any of these steeds, just in case we lose them.
Losing Thelma and Louise taught me a lesson in heartbreak, so now I sadly
know not to get too attached to these beautiful creatures.
Percival and Lancelot are always scouting ahead and around us, dipping into
tree lines to look for tracks that might be Dindrane’s. We don’t find anything.
As the sun is beginning to set on the second day, we push the horses to the
finish line, and the glimmering city of Listenoise rises in the distance over the
hills. To our left, the ominous castle and monastery sit in silence on the island
of Medcaut just off the coast, with the waves battering its craggy shores.
When we trot across the stone bridge and into the capital of Listenoise, the
sun dips behind us, casting the sky and clouds in long brushstrokes of orange
and purple.
“We’ve made it,” I say, taking a deep breath.
We bring the horses to a walk as we approach the city gates. Two guards
appear, sharp-looking in their silver armor and spears.
Percival takes the lead. I notice the guards’ body language shift
uncomfortably, from stoic sentinels to what-the-fuck-do-we-do-about-this?
“Uhh, Sir Percival,” one of the guards says. “You’re back.”
My angelic knight scowls at them from his saddle. “King Pellinore didn’t
exile me, soldier. He simply told me to leave the castle. Will you try and deny
my entry into the city I once called home?”
The guard lifts the visor of his helmet and blinks. “Why in Avalon’s name
would I do that, sir?”
Percival’s head tilts and the anger leaves his face. “Oh. I . . . don’t know. I
was expecting resistance, I suppose.”
The guards shake their heads. “No, no, you have it all wrong. We’re glad
you’re here, sir.”
Percy sits straighter on his horse. “Why is that, Sir . . .”
“Geoffrey. I’m not a knight though, sir.”
“It’s a matter of respect to me, Sir Geoffrey. Thank you for making this
easy. Has Princess Dindrane happened by here?”
Geoffrey nods. “Two nights ago.”
The other guard fidgets with his gauntlets, which I find odd. Quirking my
brow, I see if the other knights notice.
Lancelot and Arthur certainly do. We share concerned glances, while
Gawain watches his sunflower interact with Sir Geoffrey, and Kay stares up at
the ramparts of the walls, apparently searching for any kind of trap.
“Any idea where she went?” Percival asks, trying to hide the anxiety from
his voice.
“I—yes.” Geoffrey’s neck bobs as he swallows hard. He opens his mouth
to speak again, clearly nervous, but the other guard smacks him in the
shoulder and shuts him up.
“What is going on here?” Percy demands.
Geoffrey shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s, um, the castle,
sir. You’d best just go to Castle Corbenic.”
Percy’s lip peels back in a snarl. “What will I find there, Sir Geoffrey?”
 “You . . .” He shakes his head adamantly, dips his chin. “I can’t say, sir. I’m
sorry. I don’t want to be the one—”
Percival yips his horse softly in the flanks and bolts forward before the man
can finish his sentence. The rest of us gawk and do the same, pushing past the
gate.
We struggle to keep up with Percival’s mad pace, from a walk to a trot to a
gallop in mere seconds. Our steeds careen through the streets. Buildings and
townsfolk fly by in blurs of white and gray.
It reminds me of charging after Domino in Camelot with the same
mindless, reckless abandon. Chasing him out of the city, into the waiting arms
of his ambush. It was Percival who came to try and rescue me, and he ended
up becoming the victim of Mordred’s trap.
I’m realizing when Percy gets something important in his head—me or his
sister, for instance—he is just as headstrong, impulsive, and reckless as I am.
My mind fills with the possibilities of what we’re about to run into at Castle
Corbenic. I try not to think about it, instead focusing on my aerodynamics, my
grip on the reins so I don’t fly off, and my posture as we race through
Corbenic’s streets.
We ride over a bridge and up a gentle slope of cobbles that leads to the
castle. The spires of the monastery-like structure jut into the darkening sky,
bathed in the twilight colors of orange and red streaks.
It looks like something out of a movie . . . that doesn’t end well. A nearly
blood-red backdrop makes up the picture in front of me, highlighting the
glorious castle. Unlike Castle Rock, which is a citadel built clearly for defensive
purposes, Castle Corbenic is like a palace. It’s been King Pellinore’s personal
residence for decades.
Percival pulls his steed up short before we reach the portcullis leading to
the castle. His white stallion rears on its hind legs and neighs loudly, kicking in
the air. The rest of us fumble to slow down so we don’t run into him.
“Oh, gods!” Percy wails.
My eyes follow his, craning up, up, up—
To something hanging from the top balcony of the castle.
Pinpricks run along my arms. My jaw falls open with my heart stuttering in
my chest. It’s not a something hanging from the balcony, but someone. They
were clearly dropped from a window of the balcony, hanged by the neck with
a long piece of rope. The body dangles over the front façade of the castle,
gently swaying in the nighttime air.
Squinting, I notice long, wispy hair flowing, and a cloud of what looks like
flies or bugs or birds mottling the rest of its face, making it nearly impossible
to identify from this distance in the near-darkness. No, please, don’t let it be—
“That’s not Dindrane.” Percival’s voice is barely a croak, confusion rippling
through his tone. He leans forward, squinting harder, then decides to push his
steed onward.
“It’s not?” I say, holding back a gasp. Intense relief floods through me.
Percival is already gone, into the courtyard. The rest of the knights follow
hastily.
Arthur stays a bit behind to drape an arm over my sagging shoulders. The
king lets out a small grunt. “It’s King Pellinore, little one.”
I crane my neck at him and blink. “Really?”
A nod.
“Shit.”
Another nod. He tilts his head left and right. “Maybe not all shit, though.
Come, let’s go see what’s happened.”
“God,” I say, putting a hand to my thumping chest to keep my heart from
bursting out and running away. “I can hardly wait.”

† † †

Soldiers line the ramparts of the castle. They sit in small groups in the
courtyard, watching us stream by on our steeds. There are lots of Listenoise
men-at-arms in here, yet none seem too concerned to see us. We’re only given
cursory glances from the necks of drooping shoulders.
As Percival pulls his horse up to the front gate of the castle, dismounts, and
loops his reins around a nearby pole, no one tries to stop him. It’s not like they
couldn’t try—the soldiers are armed to the teeth. Some of the men and
women camping out in the courtyard are whetting their blades or sitting with
them on their laps.
I’m so confused. Everyone here looks depressed, or at least lost. Lacking
leadership, perhaps. I’m not about to ask why no one’s resisting us, because it
feels like we’re being given a free pass, and why would I argue with that?
 Once we’re inside the castle, Percy prepares for the worst and draws his
sword as we march down the halls. The rest of us follow his lead.
Guards continue to let us pass, swiveling their heads to follow us as we go.
We gain the second level, then the stairs to the third, where two guards block
our path.
Percival says, “What is going on here, soldiers?”
The sentries share looks. Neither wants to talk.
“Speak!” Percival yells, startling them both.
“Did you not see the body hanging outside the balcony, Sir Percival?” the
one on the left says.
“Of course I did.”
He bows his head. “I’m sorry. Your father is dead.”
“Don’t be sorry.” When the sentry raises his chin, Percy says, “You didn’t
kill him, did you?”
With a flustered huff, the guard backs up a step. “N-No! Of course not!”
“Who did?”
“Lady Dindrane, sir.”
Silence. I move to the front of our group next to Percy, and take his hand.
There’s a distant expression on his face.
When I squeeze, he’s jolted back to reality. He furrows his brow. “And wh
—what has been done to my sister for this act of treason?”
The guard, who is helmetless, swipes his hand through his hair. He’s on
edge, tense as fuck. “That’s just it, sir. Nothing has been done, because we
haven’t been able to reach her, and, well, we’re not sure what to do even if we
could reach her.”
Percy blinks. “Explain that.”
He points up the stairs. “She’s barricaded herself in the solar. Something
huge blocks the doorway—bookcase, maybe. The royal guard has been
moseying around the castle, waiting her out.”
“Besieging her.”
“If that’s what you’d like to call it.” He shrugs. “Even if we get to her, our
captains don’t know what to do. She’s the last living offspring of our king.”
“Not the last, is she?”
Both pairs of eyes bulge. They shake their heads. “Suppose not, sir.”
“How long has she been up there?”
“She came in late, two nights ago. She hasn’t left the room since.”
 “Food? Water?”
The guard shamefully shakes his head, slowly. “She wouldn’t take anything
through the door. Thought we’d rush her once the door cracked open. Also
thought we’d poison her.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
The man seethes. “Yes, I suppose killing your father—”
The other knight silences him with a squeeze of his shoulder, as if
reminding him who he’s talking to.
The first guard lets out a heavy sigh and bows his head. “Apologies, Sir
Percival. I didn’t mean to sound heartless.”
“It’s fine. You just lost your king, too.”
A gloomy nod from the guard.
“Let me try and speak with her,” Percival says.
The guard steps aside, waving a hand up the stairs. “By all means, sir. She’s
yours.”
“You may vacate this post. Both of you.” Over his shoulder: “Kay, Gawain,
Lancelot, will you stand guard?”
The knights nod.
Then Percival, me, and Arthur inch up the stairwell.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 42
Guinevere

“Din? It’s me. Percy.”

My soft knight speaks softer than I’ve ever heard. We’re alone up here, after
Percival sent the five men-at-arms stationed at the door down to the second
level.
At first, we hear nothing from the other side of the great oak door.
Percy says, “It’s just me, Lady Guin, and King Arthur. I need to talk to you.
Please. We can get this sorted out.”
Shuffling from the other side of the door. We look at each other. Then, “I
don’t want to see or speak to any kings.”
Dindrane’s voice sounds raspy, like she’s been crying all night. Maybe the
past two nights.
Percival and I turn to Arthur.
The king nods. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I say, “We will, love.”
He squeezes my hand, and then joins the others at the bottom of the stairs.
Percival leans against the door. “Okay, Din. I’ve sent King Arthur away. It’s
just me and Guin now.”
“You . . . you promise not to try anything?”
Percival’s face sinks. “Never, Din. No one will ever try anything again. I’ll
make sure of that.”
“You can’t make that promise, Percy, unless you agree to be by my side for
the rest of our lives. Which I know you won’t do, because of the woman
standing next to you.”
My heart rips in two. She sounds so helpless and untrusting, and I totally
understand why.
As a kid, Dindrane was forced to live in the woods with her widowed
mother and musical brother, while the two children watched their mother lose
her mind. Once she finally came of age, she was accepted back into Listenoise
court life, only for her despicable father to abuse her in the worst possible way.
She had finally found an out with King Lot, and now that romanticized,
fantasized lifestyle she hoped for went up in smoke with Lot’s gruesome
death.
So she came fleeing back here, tail between her legs.
I have to wonder if murder was on her mind when she fled Leudonia, or if
killing her elderly father was simply par for the course—an afterthought, and a
way for her to release some of her grief and sweltering rage.
“I don’t blame you, you know,” Dindrane says after a long pause, “not
wanting to stay in Listenoise. I didn’t, either. But after what . . . happened in
Leudonia, I got scared. I didn’t know where else to go.”
I suppose we can’t always make our second home as noteworthy as the first. Terrible
memories or not, this is still her nest.
It’s hard to reconcile that. I wonder if I would have done the same thing if
I were in her predicament, or if I’d have gone anywhere else after Lot’s death.
It’s hard to say.
For a moment, I forget I’m talking about a living, breathing person. I feel
ashamed. It disgusts me to think of Dindrane how King Pellinore did—a
piece on a chessboard that can be moved around in certain directions, and
can’t move in others. Stifled by her own status.
“I understand,” Percival says. His voice is drenched in emotion. It’s
emotion I know I can’t understand, because I didn’t grow up with these two.
It’s years and years of stuffed-down feelings and rage, which never had an
outlet.
Until now.
“I’m not mad at you, Din.” Percival’s breath comes shallow, the anger
seeming to rise in his chest. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.
I’m glad, actually—”
“You didn’t know what he’d done to me, brother. Don’t blame yourself.”
“Once you told me, on the road, I should have turned back around and—”
“Gotten yourself killed trying to break into the castle? Don’t be foolish.”
Percival’s lips curl in a smirk. “You managed to do it.”
Dindrane lets out a squeak of a laugh, and I smile. I have to imagine it’s the
first happy sound to pass through her lips since the awkward feast at Castle
Rock. “I’m not you, brother. I don’t need to use a sword to get places, because
I have feminine wiles on my side.”
Percival snorts. “Some would say I do, too.”
Her laugh is a little louder this time—a bit more oomph behind it. “Would
Lady Guin say that?”
I cock my eyebrows at Percival, who searches my face, as if daring me to
answer. “Sometimes.”
They both chuckle.
After a lull in the conversation, I hear a sliding sound on the other side.
Then, ever so gently, the door unlatches and cracks open.
Percival takes a deep breath before opening it.
Dindrane stands a few feet away in the beautiful room, hands circling her
wrists. Her beautiful blonde curls are disheveled and lanky against her scalp.
She looks like she’s been through the wringer, crying for two days straight,
with tear-streaked smudges down her cheeks.
Given the circumstances, who wouldn’t look like that? I’m surprised she had the
wherewithal to move this big-ass bookcase across the door.
When she sees Percy standing in the doorway, her eyes swell with tears. She
sniffles, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. She’s wearing the same low-cut
gown from the dinner, except now it’s ragged and rumpled.
Percival puts his arms out wide, in a gesture of embrace. He doesn’t take a
step toward her—offering the opening, but not smothering her after all she’s
been through.
It’s a small gesture I fondly recognize, and it makes my heart sing.
After his arms have been out for all of three seconds, Dindrane lunges at
him and falls into his chest like a small child. A sob rips from her throat, and
Percy cradles the back of her head, gently rubbing. His size swallows her up.
“It’s okay, Din. It’s going to be okay.”
I flare my nostrils, fighting back tears of my own.
Scanning the room, I notice the stained-glass window is open at the end.
Lengths of rope stretches from the bed in the center of the room—looped
over the round pommel at the corner of the bed’s frame—to the window,
where it disappears below, out of sight.
It makes my skin crawl, and I suppress a shiver.
“We need to get you something to eat,” Percival says softly. “You’re skin
and bones, sister.”
 She chokes a laugh in his chest. “Our family has always been skin and
bones, Percy.”
I feel wrong being in here, between brother and sister. Even on the other
side of the door, listening to their low conversation made me feel dirty. Why
did Percy want to bring me up here? All the sadness between these two. Was it to show me
how his life looked before the Knights of the Round Table showed up? It’s no wonder why he
was so enamored by them.
These poor souls have lived lives surrounded by grief and fantasy. Growing
up in the forest near here must have fostered a sense of wonder and
exploration, always raising the question: What could life be like outside this
kingdom?
The Knights of the Round Table represented escapism and a new life for
Percival. King Lot symbolized the same thing for Princess Dindrane, I think.
Their circumstances separated them, and have brought them together
again. Both times, I think, the circumstances were riddled by pain. The pain of
sibling separation after living their whole lives together; the pain of losing a
mother; and now, the awful fate that has reunited them.
After a long embrace, they separate and stare into each other’s eyes.
Dindrane’s are dry but glassy. She’s cried all her tears, and now looks adoringly
at her brother.
“I smothered him, you know,” she says.
Percival’s head rocks back. “W-What?”
She juts her chin in the direction of the bed, as if it’s nothing. “Before
throwing him out the window. I smothered him in his sleep. With a pillow.”
Percy’s at a loss for words.
“He was too frail to fight me. Too weak.”
My knight swallows hard. “He was always weak.”
She tosses her head to the side, moving her gaze away from her brother.
“But you aren’t, Din.”
She firms her lips and nods, her chin trembling.
Nothing else needs to be said. Percival doesn’t have to ask the question—
why?—and Dindrane doesn’t have to answer. They both intuitively understand
it was Din’s only recourse given everything that’s happened.
Like Percy said, he’s simply sad and ashamed he wasn’t able to do the deed
himself, to spare his sister the agony of patricide.
 That horrific practice is alarmingly frequent in this age of medieval war and
politics. I can’t really call it “horrific” at its core, because didn’t these men
deserve it? Lot’s death might have been less deserved than Ector’s or
Pellinore’s, but even the King of Leudonia was not a good man. He was a
predator in his own way, and clearly Morgan le Fay had issues with him.
It gives me shudders when I flash back on that earth-shattering image:
Morgan shape-shifted as Queen Anna, naked and maniacal and soaked in
blood, straddling Lot’s dying body and stabbing him over and over and over
again. All while she’s getting railed by freaking goblins!
I mean, good Lord, there are some incredibly fucked-up people in this world,
but I think she might take the cake. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that scene as
long as I live. I just hope there comes a day when it doesn’t haunt my dreams
any longer.
Dindrane asks, “What do we do now?” and I glance up from the floor,
pulled out of my daydream. My day-nightmare.
He thinks for a second. Not nearly long enough to warrant his response,
leading me to believe he’s already been thinking about it since we first saw
King Pellinore’s body dangling out the window. “I need you to be strong one
more time, Din.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice cracks with worry.
He takes her gently by the shoulders. “The people of this kingdom love
you. The soldiers respect you. They didn’t even want to drag you out of here.
No one cares what you’ve done to Father, because he was a bastard. I’m sure
most of the city is relieved.”
I know what’s coming before she does. Her eyes quaver as she stares up at
her taller, older brother. “Say what you’re skipping around, Percy.”
“I will claim Listenoise, Din. As the sole remaining male heir of Pellinore,
it’s my duty. That’s something I can handle . . . but I need you to lead the
country in my absence.”
“Your absence?”
Percival gives her a firm nod. “I must enlist the soldiers of Listenoise to
King Arthur’s cause. Once we reseat him on Camelot’s throne, this war of
kings will be finished. Peace will reign.” She opens her mouth to reply, but he
speaks first. “Until then, Din, you must take the mantle of Queen of
Listenoise. Can you do that for me?”
 Something hard settles in her eyes. Her jaw clamps shut, and I worry she’s
going to feel betrayed. She pushes out words through gritted teeth. “All I’ve
ever wanted was to get away from Listenoise. There are so many awful
memories here, and you would beg me to stay?”
Percival’s shoulders sag. “I’m so sorry, Din. If there was another way . . .”
I can sense the calculating in her blue eyes. The cutthroat qualities she
gained from her father, no doubt—the same qualities Percival possesses, yet
rarely shows.
Except for this time. This is Percival at his most ruthless.
I put a hand to my heart, feeling my pulse thump along.
Din turns to me. “What do you say of this, Lady Guin? I value your
opinion, because you have these knights under your thumb.”
I want to say we can find another way. That we can find another honest
person to lead Listenoise while we’re gone.
But I can’t make that promise, either. What would Percival be coming back to?
How could he ever guarantee his sister’s safety?
I purse my lips, thinking it over. Then, I ask her, “Do you have soldiers
loyal to you here, Princess Dindrane? Any guards you trust at all?”
She pouts, chin wrinkling. “I suppose. Yes. There’s Claddus, and Dolhop,
and Raymond, among others.”
“Then I agree with Percival, sadly. You won’t be safe outside these walls.
Inside, you’ll have the protection of your people. Your name will protect you,
too—”
“Until the nobility comes for my head, thinking I’m too weak to rule! And
a woman, to boot!”
I glance at the window and the rope, and then face her and blink, trying to
make my gesture clear. “I don’t think anyone will be underestimating you after
today, Princess.”
She struggles with that.
“If you leave now,” I say, “after all this, you might never have a home to
return to if something awful happens again. Someone will take the crown and
erase your royal bloodline from existence. I know this place is stained with
terrible memories, but you’re strong. And it won’t be forever.”
“How long?”
“A month,” Percival blurts. “Two at most.”
 That works with me. In a month or two, we’ll either be dead or victorious.
There don’t seem to be too many ways around those outcomes, given how far
we’ve come. With Ector, Lot, and now Pellinore dead, it’s too late to turn
back. We have people in every corner of the realm working with us, trying to
build an army that can take on Mordred and Camelot and Morgan le Fay and
her wretchkin horde.
I put a hand on Dindrane’s arm. “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear
from me, Princess, but—”
“Fine,” she snaps. Her chin twitches. “I’ll do it.”
Our eyebrows rise.
“Under one condition,” she amends. Her sky-blue eyes darken when she
faces Percival, and I can see those cunning wheels turning.
With the leverage on her side, why not ask for more? It’s what any
enterprising person would do, sister or otherwise. And Princess Dindrane is
nothing if not resourceful and understanding of her position.
Her finger thrusts into Percival’s chest. “Where will you be going after this,
first?”
“Leudonia,” he says. “We need to clean up . . . Gawain needs to confront
his people.”
She gives him a decisive nod. “Then promise me, brother, that you’ll return
here after this war is over. In victory or defeat, tell me you’ll come back to
Castle Corbenic and Listenoise.”
That’s it? Didn’t he already promise—
Percy glances over at me—
And it hits me.
“I swear I’ll return, Dindrane,” Percival vows.
“And not in ten years, like last time! Promptly.”
He bows his head and salutes. “You have my word.”
My heart gallops in my chest.
Am I going to lose Percival after the war is over?

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 43
Guinevere

Throughout the night, Percy makes the necessary arrangements to install

Dindrane as Queen-Regent of Listenoise. He shows a surprising amount of
boldness and command when he speaks to the soldiers in the courtyard that
evening, explaining the situation. When he interviews the soldiers Dindrane
mentioned were trustworthy, he scrutinizes and studies them until he’s
convinced of their loyalty to the family name.
I love seeing this side of Sir Percival. He’s come into his own and turned a
new leaf from the naked, lute-playing, low self-esteem knight I met in Camelot
months ago.
Some soldiers have their reservations about Percy as king. I can see it in
their eyes when he addresses them. When they hear the amount of coin Percy
and Gawain are offering for their support in the war effort, those skeptical
eyes grow dollar signs.
That’s one way to make sure Dindrane will be safe: Bring everyone you
don’t trust with us, far away from Listenoise as possible. I’m not sure what that
says about the loyalty of our army, but that’s a question for a different day.
I shouldn’t be surprised Percival is able to succeed in doing all this. For one,
he’s the sole remaining male heir of King Pellinore. The last of twelve.
Listenoise doesn’t have much of an alternative. Plus, his claim of legitimacy is
substantiated by King Arthur and the remaining Knights of the Round Table,
every step of the way. No one is going to go against him when some of the
most renowned warriors in the world are staring daggers at them.
Arthur’s validation, and the support of the Round Table, makes it an easier
pill for the soldiers to swallow. The money they stand to gain is one thing.
Removing a usurper is also the noble thing to do, and Listenoise seems to
pride itself on gallantry.
 Once we explain how we have militaries from Leudonia, Sauvage, Hibernia,
and even parts of Kernow and Camelot on our side, people stream to the
enlistment line. A month ago, it might have been a different story. Now? We
actually look like a serious, formidable force in Logres. One that has to be
making King Mordred shake in his boots.
I have to wonder what Morgan le Fay’s plan was killing King Lot, and
making the princess witness the grotesque act. If Morgan had simply allowed
Din and Lot to bond, that would have made Leudonia and Listenoise allies,
and both kingdoms were poised to help her.
Unless she saw her control over these kingdoms slipping once Arthur arrived, and
decided to blow up the whole scheme.
I think about it late at night, sleeping in a room full of my exhausted mates.
I recall the startling words Morgan yelled while the goblins had their way with
her: “You want heirs, you big fucking buffoon?! Look what they’re doing to your wife! I’ll
give you so many fucking heirs!”
It makes me shiver, with the hysterical bent of “Queen Anna’s” tone. It
must be a vendetta, I think. A personal one, with King Lot on her shit-list.
I think about the dreams Merlin showed me. The picture becomes more
convoluted, but ultimately clearer.
Merlin told me Morgan plans to announce the secret of Mordred’s lineage
once the timing is right, to place him as a legitimate heir to Camelot’s throne.
People will learn how she tricked Arthur into sleeping with her, but by that
point, it will be too late for anyone to care.
What’s she waiting for?
When Mordred was born, Morgan gave him to Queen Anna and King Lot,
to nurture as heirs to Leudonia’s throne. Ostensibly, to hide his true parentage.
Lot disliked Mordred, but he forgot the reason why after Morgan cast her curse
to destroy Camelot, erasing the memory of my Guinevere lineage in Logres.
The reason for the loathing is lost—erased—due to the curse, but it’s still
important to understand the contempt Lot held for Mordred stems from him
not being his actual child. At one point in time, he knew that. The reason left, but
the hate remained.
I’m guessing Morgan didn’t want to give Mordred to Lot and her sister.
Someone forced her to. Maybe it was Anna, or Merlin, or Arthur, or even her
own conscience.
 When I think of the sarcastic, spiteful way Morgan yelled “I’ll give you so
many fucking heirs!” it gives me a clue where Morgan’s hatred for Lot came from.
Over our first dinner in Leudonia, Lot said Anna had been acting more
vitriolic and demanding over recent days. I guess one of us should have recognized
that as something amiss. He also told us how Morgan had come to visit recently,
and spoke mostly with her sister Anna. More clues we missed, which we could have
used before it was too late.
Morgan has been ahead of us every step of the way. Though this recent
blood-drenched act of hers seems counterintuitive to her ultimate goals, it
starts to make more sense to me as I roll around aimlessly in my bed.
Regardless of how the exchange of baby Mordred transpired from Morgan to Lot, she
hated Lot for stealing her son from her. Point blank. That’s why she took Anna’s form,
tricking everyone along the way, and plotted Lot’s death.
She must have included Dindrane in the scenario as an afterthought—a
scare tactic meant to frighten the princess away from Leudonia forever. And
boy did it work.
Dindrane’s very presence was humiliating for Queen Anna, even if it was
Morgan le Fay playing the part of Anna at the time.
I still can’t pinpoint why Morgan would destroy the alliance between Lot
and Pellinore that seemed to work in her favor, but I suppose, in the end, it
doesn’t really matter. Her actions strike fear in the hearts of everyone, and that
is her true goal. Her motives are irrelevant at this point.
As I finally begin to drift off, reaching a somewhat-satisfying conclusion to
my convoluted, ADHD-riddled thoughts that veer in a million directions, I
land on one single question I don’t have the answer to, and it burns me to the
bone: If Morgan was Anna the whole time we were in Leudonia . . . what the hell
happened to the real Queen Anna?

† † †

I look out from behind steel bars. When I put my hands on the cold metal, I shake and
shake but nothing gives. I’m trapped. Again.
Panicking, I take in my surroundings. I’m in a cold, dark place, dripping with water
runoff. It’s a dungeon, like so many I’ve seen in Logres, except I’ve never been in this one
before.
 I know Camelot’s prison system like the back of my hand. I know Castle Chariot’s
from when I was dangled like a bird in a cage for Morgan le Fay and Sir Meleagant. This is
more like the latter.
I gasp when I realize I’m in a similar cage—domed at the top, rattling and swaying with
movement a few feet off the ground every time I try to shake the bars. My heart thunders as
I wonder if I’ve manifested my way into this new jail cell. Did Morgan find me in my
sleep and steal me away?!
When I peer at the grimy stone walls of the dungeon, I notice splotches of a dried brown
substance. Blood, I think, starting to lose my mind. Wrist chains and ankle shackles droop
from the walls. There are other instruments of torture I hardly recognize in the corners of
the large room. All of them are medieval and awful.
It dawns on me I’ve found myself in a much more perverse, dangerous prison than I’ve
ever been in before. That fact doesn’t help my spiking pulse.
A door creaks open in the distance and a shadow paints itself against the wall through a
hallway. It’s a huge shadow, with foreboding footsteps. My eyes grow wider and wider as the
figure emerges—
And ends up being little more than a boy.
I jolt to my knees, white-knuckling my bars.
The boy is lanky, with black hair sticking out at all ends. He walks with a staff, and I
can picture his rosy cheeks without needing to see his face. He stops at the end of the hallway
into my prison chamber. His eyes scan the air and see me. “Hmm, what do we have here?”
Just as I’m about to to cry out his name, a door on the other side of the room opens. My
head jerks, and my stomach drops to my feet.
Two wretchkin meander into the room through a back hall. I can hardly make them out
in this windowless room, but the orange fire of the wall-sconces highlights their oddly angled
bodies.
Then there’s the smell. Even from a twenty-foot distance, their odor of decay and filth
reaches me. They speak in low murmurs in a guttural language I don’t understand.
My head whips back over to the boy—
He’s gone.
I let out a whimper. The goblins pose underneath me, craning their necks. One of them
snorts and shoulders the other, then rubs his huge nose a few times. The other one spreads his
loincloth to the side and displays his oversized green cock to me before laughing with his
friend.
“Mother say don’t touch,” the first goblin says.
 The flasher frowns, then wags his dick in front of him like a helicopter. “But nice holes.
Gwipom like nice holes.” He points up at me. “At least three on her. We fill?”
The other sighs. Slowly, he nods. “We fill, Gwipom. Mother find out? You die. Not
me.”
My fingers tremble on the bars. Oh God, no, no. “Wait!” I cry out as the first goblin
goes to a pulley system and begins to lower me.
Surprisingly, they pause. Crane their necks again.
Black blood spews from the first one’s mouth as his ribcage explodes out of his chest and
his heart plops on the ground with a sickening, wet thud.
The flasher laughs at him, then his face screws up. “Huh? Doshon?” He goes to touch
the mutilated corpse of his friend—
His body crystallizes in a sheet of sparkling ice before his pointer finger can touch the
still-beating heart on the ground. He’s frozen like a statue, eyes continuing to move, widening
in shock and horror.
The boy walks out from behind an X-shaped torture device and approaches him at a
leisurely pace. One of his hands is outstretched toward the goblin, as if he’s focusing to
harness his spell. When he gets close, he reels back with his staff and swings it like a bat,
and the goblin explodes into fragments of ice and skin and gore.
The boy tips his chin and puts his hands on his hips. “Fancy seeing you here, eh?”
I gasp and try to answer, but no words come out. Only silence.
Footsteps echo across the hall of the corridor he entered through. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,”
the boy whines in a high-pitched complaint. He raises his hand to strike down the incoming
shadow on the wall—
And stops when the figure emerges.
It’s a man with white hair, shorn at the edges and long on top. He sports a mustache, full
plate mail armor, and a sword and shield. His shield shows a crest with a red background
and three severed hands in the corners, creating a triangle.
I’ve never seen him before.
The boy says, “Hm. Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
The knight frowns. “Who are—”
The boy cocks his head to the side, striking a pose. “Better?”
“Keeper of Memories, is that you? What are you doing here?”
“Finding new memories to keep. I could ask you the same, King Bagdemagus.”
That name. I recognize it, but only vaguely. King of Gorre, the land where Morgan le
Fay’s castle resides. I wonder if that means I’m in Morgan’s castle. Also, why isn’t Merlin
old? In my other dreams, he appeared ancient. His true nature, as he put it. Does that mean
this is actually happening, in the present? Is it a vision, or a memory?
“I came to investigate the death of my son,” Bagdemagus says, sheathing his sword. “I
see you’ve been having fun with the wretchkin.”
Merlin nods. “The fairies fucked up with those ones.”
“I daresay it wasn’t the fairies, but the evil bitch who wants to steal my kingdom.”
Merlin chuckles, cracking like a prepubescent boy. “Morgan doesn’t want your goblin-
infested kingdom, Bag. She wants every kingdom.”
“Yes, and she’ll start with the one closest to her—the one where her castle is located.”
Merlin plants his staff in front of him and rests his chin on the pommel. “You’ve come
to the wrong place to investigate the death of Sir Meleagant.”
Oh, shit, that’s right. Lancelot told me King Bagdemagus is Sir Meleagant’s
father.
“No shit, Old One,” Bagdemagus sighs, stepping into the room and sitting on the edge
of a torture bench. “I gave him the fucking castle in Sorestan. And what does he do with it,
but use it for his own perverted purposes, and to aid the likes of the Witch Queen?”
“I take it you aren’t happy with your son.”
“I’m sure he died doing something foolish. You won’t believe it, but no one at Castle
Chariot had a clue what happened to him. A massacre, they’re saying, but with no
witnesses? Sounds like nonsense to me. After that, I came up here to snoop around, since
Morgan isn’t around much these days.”
“They’d be right, you know, about the massacre.”
Bagdemagus pops up from the bench. I think, Are they just going to leave me
dangling and eavesdropping?
“What say you, Merlin?”
“Sir Lancelot killed your son.”
I should have known Merlin wouldn’t lie for us.
Bagdemagus seethes, baring his teeth. “That fiend—”
“Did what was right. Meleagant deserved it, Bag. I know you don’t want to see or hear
it, but your quest has brought you this far. Meleagant wished harm on the Lady Guinevere.
In fact, he colluded with your sworn enemy to get to her.”
“No.”
Merlin nods. “Meleagant was working with Morgan le Fay, and it got him killed. That’s
the story you’re looking for.”
Now Bagdemagus’ bared teeth are bared in shame. He swings his gaze to the ground
and stomps on the goblin’s heart, squishing it.
 I cringe.
“Now, Bag, you have a couple options,” Merlin says. “The right one is staring you in
the eye.” He points up to me.
“And the wrong one, Keeper?”
“Do nothing. Continue on this fruitless quest, even though you have your answers. Watch
as the world burns around you, and you lose your kingdom in full to the Witch Queen.”
“Sounds pleasant,” Bagdemagus says wryly.
“Hey, what the fuck!” I yell down at them, unable to contain myself any longer. “Can
you have this dialogue some other time? My tits are freezing off in—”
Merlin spins on me. “By Avalon, that voice.” He goes to the pulley and starts to bring
me down.
“Is that who I think it is?” Bagdemagus asks.
“It is. But it doesn’t sound like her.” A frown etches on his boyish face. “Fiery maiden,
that you in there? Spirits take me, are you spying on me in your dreams again—in someone
else’s body, no less?”
He makes an odd gesture with his hand, raises his palm, and flings a sheet of white
magic into the air. I pull back and scream as the pale blanket fills every inch of my vision.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 44
Guinevere

I jolt awake with a snort. A hand is gently nudging my shoulder, and when I
jerk into wakefulness, I nearly tip over off the side of the seating bench.
“Whoa there,” Lancelot says, cradling and pulling me close so I don’t fall. I
don’t miss the hint of worry in his tone. “You all right, fireheart?”
I blink rapidly to get my bearings. My body bounces as the cart rides over a
stone on the dirt path. When I put a hand to my head, it’s tender.
The dream comes rushing back to me: caged in a torture room; Merlin
killing the wretchkin who wanted to defile me; King Bagdemagus showing up
in search of some kind of meaning behind his son’s death. All these kings, all
these deaths. Fathers, sons, wives, daughters. Did I . . . intrude on Merlin’s memories again?
Without even touching him this time?
I’m not sure what the hell is going on with me, but it scares me.
“Guin?” Lancelot asks again, steeped with more concern.
My head whips over to him, startled. “I-I’m fine. What happened to me?”
“You dozed off,” Lance says. “Your body needs rest.”
Sir Kay grunts from the other side of Lance. Arthur, Gawain, and Percy are
in the second horse-drawn cart.
I fell asleep on the road? Never thought that would happen. When I ventured with
Lancelot through Logres the first time, I was so eager to sit on the bench,
watching the elements and world. Now, I’m falling asleep at the reins.
I guess one could say that means I’m comfortable with my mates, to so
easily drift off near them. The gentle hills and gorgeous countryside of this
land doesn’t fill me with the same sense of wonder it used to.
I piece back fragments of memory as my dream fades. This morning, we
gathered some carts from Listenoise’s stables to make the journey a bit more comfortable, and
hit the road, leaving Prin—I mean Queen-Regent Dindrane—in charge. “We’re on
the way to Leudonia?” I want to make sure I have my timeline right.
 Lancelot hums. “Less than a day out. Arthur wants to use it as a base of
operations, since it’s more centrally located than Listenoise. That way, the
armies from either coast can reach us swiftly, and we can travel down the
artery of Logres to get to Camelot.”
To get to Camelot. It’s really happening. The prophetic war of Merlin’s vision
is nearly at our doorstep, and I haven’t done enough to stop it.
In my heart, I know I can’t stop it if Logres is to be saved. Still, part of me
wants to challenge the fates—prove my ancestors were wrong for leaving here
when the going got tough, and that things don’t always have to end in death.
We’ve already lost so much—sacrificed so much—haven’t we? When will it
be enough? As soon as Mordred and Arthur are dead, a voice says inside my head.
It’s the devil on my shoulder, and I hate that she’s right.
Lancelot fills me in. “Gawain is anxious about losing his kingdom just as
quickly as he got it.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “Can’t trust Sir Belview or Lord Talbot for shit.
All the nobles, really.”
Lancelot’s chuckle sounds nervous. “I don’t think we have to worry about
the nobles. Not after what I inadvertently showed them in that feast hall.”
“Your demon?”
A quick nod, and a flash of shame on his face.
He may never be okay with who he is. But I always will be. “Any word on Iseult
and Tristan?” I ask, trying to change subjects to make it less awkward for him.
His broad shoulders rise and fall. “You know as much as I do, lass. We
hope to receive word from them once we get to Castle Rock.”
I lean back in the bench and stare up at the sky. My thoughts drift to the
last few weeks, which have been a whirlwind of political maneuvering and
activity . . . which strangely has worked in our favor. Almost as if the prophecy
is giving us these wins now, so the pain is that much worse when the rug is
pulled out from under us.
I mean, that’s if you can call the deaths of three elderly kings “wins.” Three
fathers of knights I love. The situations were all different, but the end results
were the same.
I don’t think any of us could have envisioned things going this way. Three
kings. I shake my head as I watch a flock of white birds sail overhead. Three
new kings in my retinue. They’re not the Knights of the Round Table anymore as much as
they’re the Kings of the Round Table.
 That idea fills me with conflicting emotions. The idea of having four kings
at my beck and call, to support me and cherish me, makes me smile. But the
sinking dread of what they had to do to get here makes my smile falter.
King Ector, killed by his enraged son.
King Lot, killed by the shape-shifted sister of his estranged wife.
King Pellinore, killed by his betrayed, estranged daughter.
A changing of the guard, I think. The end of an era. What began with King Uther’s
death now trickles down to the deaths of the wicked kings he called allies.
What does that say for Uther? Might he have been hiding awful traits of his own?
Similar attitudes as his allies? I suppose, for someone’s reputation, their death can be a
blessing, if only to swallow up the terrible secrets they held in life.
We have access to the armies of those fallen kings. Vast military regiments,
war chests, and bodies to put into our army. We might have enough to take on
King Mordred, Morgan le Fay, and their allies. It will be bloody and brutal, no
matter who wins . . .
Unless I can find a way to stop it. Definitely seems like I’m the only one even
interested in such a thing. Maybe it’s the modern sensibilities in me, not wanting to see
anymore heads lopped off or bodies eviscerated or blood-soaked grass.
I stuff the thoughts down for the time being and think back on my knights,
and what they’ve accomplished so far.
Lancelot asks, “What’s that devious little smirk for, fireheart?”
My cheeks warm. “Huh?”
His face hardens, but there’s light in his dark eyes. “Don’t hide it from me.”
He pushes swirls of black hair out of his forehead and eyes, to get a better
look at me.
“I was just thinking of all the kings I have under my thumb now.” Even
with sarcasm in my voice, there’s no denying the truth in my statement. I
bump his shoulder and add, “Only one of you isn’t a king, in fact.”
He rolls his eyes and stares ahead at the road. After a minute of creaking
wheels, he says, “I had my own castle once, you know.”
“Really? What happened to it?”
“Oh, it’s still standing.”
“Where is it?”
“Not far from here, actually.” He jerks his chin over his shoulder. “A bit
south of Castle Corbenic, and a little ways inland. Dolorous Guard, I called
it.” He smiles fondly.
 My eyebrows fly up to my hairline. “No shit? Does that make you a king?”
He scoffs. “No. It’s in Listenoise.”
“So Pellinore was your king?” I say with disgust.
“Not exactly. King Uther gave me the castle for the battles I helped him
wage. Uther was the great unifier, and had fortifications all across the
continent. He wanted a northern stronghold Camelot could consider her own,
to watch for invaders from the north and east.”
“Damn. What, uh, what happened?”
He shrugs. “I got bored.”
I bark in disbelief. “No way!”
“And lonely. Missed the camaraderie of the knighthood.”
My disbelief morphs into a pang of sorrow. I put a hand on his knee and
lean my head against his arm. “Aw, Lance. That sucks. The sacrifices you had
to make for your liege.”
Kay scoffs on the other side of him, apparently listening to our whole
conversation. “Tell her the truth, Lancelot. The ‘sacrifices’ the little lamb
speaks of were for your benefit, never your detriment. King Uther was
honorable. All he ever did was treat you like a son and gift you a fucking
fortress.”
Lance chuckles when I narrow my eyes on him, demanding an answer with
my eyes. “Fine,” he says. “The wretchkin in the area became a problem, too.
An infestation, really. I couldn’t handle them on my own.”
I pop up from his arm. “That far east from Gorre?”
“Morgan le Fay has quite the range. It’s why we saw them so far south, in
Sorestan, too. Remember what I told you on the road?”
I think back, biting my lip, and nod. “She wants to test the waters of all the
kingdoms to see which ones she can overrun and control with her horde.”
“Exactly. Dolorous Guard was a good place to start, surrounded by so
much natural growth. Cut off from any kingdom. I didn’t like being there
much, anyway, so it worked out for the best.”
I mean, that’s definitely a there’s-always-a-silver-lining way of thinking if
I’ve ever heard one. I think it’s bullshit. He speaks about it less as a fond
memory, more as an awkward stage in his life he’d just as soon forget.
“Would you ever, you know, go back?” I prod.
“If the circumstances were right, I suppose.”
 I wonder why he’s telling me this. Then I think about how I mentioned the
three new kings in my retinue, and wonder if his story wasn’t laced with a bit
of jealousy and ego-stroking, to tell me, “Hey, I’m important, too, y’know!”
It’s an odd, human thing to feel from the mighty Sir Lancelot, but it’s there
all the same.
“If you’d like,” I say, “we can visit there once this battle is over. You can be
the king of your own castle. Maybe we can spiff the place up a bit, if it’s been
out of use for years.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “That would be nice, love.” After a beat of
silence, with my finger making slow circles on his knee, he chirps, “Wouldn’t
be a king, though, would I? A lord at best.”
“A duke?”
“Oh! Maybe a count? I like the sound of Count Lancelot.” He bobs his
eyebrows.
I giggle and lean against his bicep again, wrapping my arm fully around his
torso and squeezing him with a hug. “I was starting to think ‘snake wrangler’
was going to stick.”
His body rumbles with low laughter. It reverberates through him, against
my cheek, and makes my insides tingle with desire. The man is just so . . .
potent. Everything about him screams masculinity and virtue, raw and feral at
their base forms. “You can call yourself whatever you want, Lance. Just as long
as you’re still mine.”
“Always and forever, fireheart.”

† † †

We reach Leudonia the next day unscathed. As we ride up the gentle slope
leading to the wide city, a group of guards waits at the gate.
More guards than usual, I notice.
Gawain takes the lead, since this is his kingdom now.
“What’s going on here?” he asks the guards.
“Sir—King Gawain, sir. You won’t believe it. It’s a miracle or an omen. No
one can make head or feet of it—”
“Of what, soldier?” Gawain’s already frustrated. For good reason. Last time
someone didn’t want to tell us what was happening, King Pellinore was
hanging from a fucking window, and we had no idea what that meant for
Princess Dindrane’s fate.
“It’s your mother, sire. Queen Anna.”
Gawain sits up rigid in the bench. “What?” He bares his teeth in a snarl.
“Say that again.”
“Queen Anna has returned, my lord.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 45
Guinevere

“Fucking hell,” Gawain mutters in frustration. “It’s always something, isn’t it?”
He clicks his tongue to bring the cart forward.
Inside the city, the streets are a madhouse. People are close to rioting—
some out of happiness, others out of anger. I see two merchants pushing each
other, yelling about “propriety” and “illusions.”
“If she can play us once, she can play us again!” the first merchant growls.
“If we’re fools enough to listen.”
Other men and women nod along, shuffling over to the quarrel.
“Don’t be dense! This is a blessing from Avalon!” shouts another. “We can
finally get our kingdom back on track!”
We ride past them, sharing concerned glances. When the quietness between
us becomes unbearable, I speak aloud what everyone is thinking: “Does this
mean Morgan le Fay is back?”
“We won’t know until we get to the castle, will we?” Gawain snaps.
My shoulders sag at his outburst.
He flares his nostrils, looks at me from his peripheral, and double takes. His
chest rises and falls with a heavy breath. “I’m . . . sorry, little lark. I’m just
antsy, is all.”
“I know,” I say with a soft smile. “It’s your mother, after all. This can’t be
easy.”
“No. I don’t know what to expect.”
I try to understand the emotions running through my dark-haired knight.
First he hates his mother for abandoning him as an infant, then he finally
accepts her as his father’s wife more than a mother, then he hates her again
until finding out “Anna” was actually Morgan le Fay the entire time we’ve been
here.
 Atop the glassy black rock of the castle, three full-length carriages are
stationed in the courtyard, bedecked in gold frames and shiny wheels. There
are six horses for each carriage, complete with royal barding and helmets,
making them look like instruments of war rather than beasts of burden.
Soldiers with red cloaks loiter near the carriages, nearly blocking our path of
the castle.
Someone has rolled out the red carpet. Before I look away, something else catches
my attention: banners rising from the coaches on flagpoles. Crimson
backgrounds, with three severed hands adorning the banners.
My breath catches in my throat. King Bagdemagus of Gorre. As we dismount
from our benches and Lancelot offers a hand to step down, my mind is still
whirling. Could it really be true? Could my vision have seen this happening? Was I Queen
Anna in that prison cell?
It’s a flat walkway from the courtyard to the front doors of the castle,
through a row of pillars on either side. An elegant woman with brunette-gray
hair stands at the end, hands clasped in front of her belly. Armed, red-cloaked
soldiers are at her side like sentinels.
The woman is demure in stature, straight-backed, with a kind face and a
gown of deep blue sweeping the ground. She’s a queen, through and through,
yet seeing her face brings back a horrible flashback—
The same woman from the bed, naked and covered in blood, plunging a
dagger into King Lot’s belly.
She looked so crazed then. But now? This is a completely different woman.
She looks mild-mannered, if anything.
I notice King Arthur’s hand twitch near the hilt of Excalibur, reflexively.
He doesn’t make a move for it. The moment is tense as we venture down the
walkway, until the woman’s face wrinkles with a smile.
Gawain is to her first. They stand five feet apart.
“Mother?”
The last time I heard Gawain say the word “Mother” in such a way, he was
referring to the old lady I followed him to in the poor district of Camelot.
That was before Gawain caught me snooping, cornered me in the alley, and
promptly showed me the time of my life with him and Kay in a Grail District
tavern. Ah, sweet, scandalous memories of a simpler time.
“My son,” Queen Anna says. Her eyebrows arch with pity and sadness.
When Arthur pushes through the group and stands next to his nephew, Anna’s
brow lifts a fraction. “And my brother. Oh, what a blessing.”
“How?” Gawain asks, his voice skeptical. He’s not asking how it’s a
blessing, he’s searching her face for any sign of deceit and treachery.
We’re on edge. Morgan le Fay is cunning. She could easily hide herself
behind the mask of this modest lady.
But there’s something different about her, too. Other than being the polar
opposite to Morgan’s maddened version of Anna, this woman has a softer
energy. A kinder, more understanding essence, which I can see just as easily as
I can see the dying sparkle in her eyes.
“Me,” says a voice off to the right.
We twist.
It’s the same man from the dream, with his wispy silver hair in an up-curl at
the front, and shorn at the sides. This time, he’s wearing a simple band of steel
on the crown of his head.
“King Bagdemagus,” Arthur says. His eyes move between Queen Anna and
the king, who clearly arrived with the carriages. “What in Avalon is going on
here?”
“It’s a long story best told over supper, son of Uther,” Bagdemagus says.
He offers a clipped smile. “I’m ravenous. I’ve been traveling nearly a week to
get here. An old man like me isn’t used to such rigors on the road.” His smile
widens on one side, then falters. “Learned I was too late to help much.”
“My husband is dead,” Queen Anna says, as if telling it to herself for the
first time.
Maybe that’s what her meek expression stems from. Shock.
“My husband is dead,” she repeats, with everyone watching, “and I’ve
returned home to find my eldest son has taken up the mantle of King of
Leudonia, to wage war upon my youngest son, the King of Camelot.”
“Mother . . .” Gawain murmurs, trailing off.
Anna raises her palm to stop him. She lifts her chin, in a show of defiance
or resilience. “No, Gawain, I won’t hear it. My grief is too great. My mourning
period began the moment I stepped foot onto these wretched cobblestones
and learned what happened to my beloved Lot.”
I can’t help but wonder, Did she know about Lot and Dindrane, to be calling him
beloved?
“We tried to stop her,” Gawain says, curling a hand into a fist in front of
him. He’s nearly shaking with rage.
 “Her?” Anna asks, tilting her head.
Arthur says, “Our sister is the perpetrator of your husband’s death, Anna.”
Anna blanches.
He gives a sad dip of his chin to his sister. “She is emboldened and
embittered with rage and grief. At what, I do not know. All I know is she must
be stopped. After witnessing what we witnessed . . . she must be stopped.”
“And you expect me to help you?” Anna snarls.
“We expect Leudonia to help us. Of which you are a part. Yes.”
“Then you would wrest the crown from me? While my husband’s body is
still warm?”
“The people believe in your son, Anna. They believe in Gawain.”
“Oh? Because I’ve seen half the city tearing the other half apart. In the day
I’ve been here, nobles have already come scurrying to me to announce their
displeasure in Gawain so quickly crowning himself king.”
“He only did it because we thought you were dead!”
All eyes turn to me—my knights, Anna, Bagdemagus, the soldiers of
Leudonia and Gorre. It’s those eyes that make me realize I blurted the words
out, in a sudden fit of exasperation. I feel suddenly very, very small. I
shouldn’t have opened my big mouth.
It’s too late for that. That Guinevere is gone.
“What were we supposed to do?” I push on, fighting through the panic
pulsing in my throat, chest, and belly. “He did what he thought was right, to
keep Leudonia away from hysteria. His swift actions were valiant, Queen
Anna.”
The queen folds her arms over her chest, staring me down, pursing her lips.
“Who are you?”
Arthur growls, “You know who she is, sister. Don’t pretend you haven’t
heard her name in the whispers crossing this continent as much as you’ve
heard mine.”
“I am Guinevere,” I announce, proudly, squaring my shoulders.
“Ah. Right.” Anna is anything but impressed. She cocks a single eyebrow.
“The woman who would make cuckolds of the finest knights in Logres.”
A bellow of a laugh erupts behind us, adding to the tension. We turn to see
Kay rumbling with laughter, pointing a thick finger at the queen. “That’s rich,
Queen Anna. I’ll have to remember that one.” When we scowl at him, he
raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Bad timing.”
 “You know nothing about me, Queen Anna,” I say, and then my voice
lowers to the level of a threat. “You will learn. I am nothing without these
knights and kings.”
“And we are nothing without her,” Arthur finishes, stepping alongside me,
bolstering my resolve. “We fight for Camelot, Anna. Will you stop us?”
Her body deflates when she stares at Arthur in all his armor and glory,
Excalibur at his hip. “I’m so tired of fighting, brother.” Her voice is barely a
whisper on the breeze. “I’ve lost three sons. A husband. Now my final two
sons wish to do battle to the death.”
“You will lose so much more if Morgan gets her way, dear sister.” Arthur
steps forward, voice rising in pitch and fervor until it’s a thunderous boom.
“Wretchkin will overrun Leudonia and every place like it. The lucky citizens of
our great cities will die. The unlucky ones will become slaves to the grotesque
fairies—the depraved monsters malformed by Morgan’s magic to do her
bidding. Our kingdoms will fall like dominoes, one after the other.
“So, I ask you, sister: Will you not thrust your sword into the necrotic,
leprous belly of evil that ravages our kingdoms and tramples our people
underfoot? Will you not open its dark vein and let the black blood run, so we
might stanch the bleeding of good blood and end the devastation of our
country? Will you not do everything you can to repair our realm of liberty, our
realm of kings, when it’s on the verge of becoming an endless realm of sin
and ruin?”
My heart slams with agony and adoration. The future he tells is so bleak,
yet he speaks it in such a heartfelt way. I’m compelled to fight with him. Even
if it’s against impossible odds, who wouldn’t want to try to save their
homeland?
“Mordred has been lost to you, Anna,” Arthur continues. “Morgan le Fay
has twisted his mind. He believes he is fighting on the side of good and
justice, even with Camelot crumbling around him. We are playing into
Morgan’s hand, tearing ourselves asunder.”
Oh, Arthur, if you only knew Camelot was crumbling because of him. Because he is
the body of Morgan’s curse, fated to bring you down.
When I tear my eyes away from Anna’s placid gaze, I see expressions of
alarm on the faces of soldiers. Something else, too, with the rigidity of their
stances, the stiffness of their backs, listening to Arthur wax poetic about our
dire situation. Is that . . . admiration in their eyes? Glints of hope, even? Admiration for
a true warlord king, when Lot had become weak?
This is the kind of unreserved, painfully raw and honest speech King
Arthur is capable of, to rile up folks to do battle. It’s what his myth and legend
is all about. The kind of eloquent soliloquy that inspires his allies in fits of
vigor and motivation. The kind that sways the opinions of fence-sitters and
swells our ranks with people we never thought would join us—people we
never would imagine fighting side by side with.
We thought we were done milking this realm of potential friends. And then
King Arthur busts through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man to unite these
strangers to a common cause. I couldn’t be more proud of him. More in love
with him. More affected by him. I can see the soldiers giving small nods,
hanging on his every word, believing everything he says.
“If you cannot fight,” Gawain adds, seething with renewed energy from
Arthur’s speech, “then lead, Mother. We will need a strong presence to govern
Leudonia while we are on the battlefront. I will need a steadying hand, so I
know I won’t have to worry about the kingdom at my back while I’m fighting
the one at my front.”
Silence falls over the courtyard. Wind whistles past the heavy armor of the
soldiers, both Leudonian and those from Gorre, Morgan le Fay’s homeland.
The people from Gorre have likely heard this story before, but never from
a king like Arthur. They’ve known Morgan for years, and already their country
is ravaged by her monsters. I wonder how many of these people have lost
siblings, parents, children, to the wretchkin.
I can tell they want to break free of her cursed spell.
Finally, Queen Anna takes a deep breath and speaks. “I know this future
you speak of, Arthur, because I lived it. Morgan came here. We spoke. She
asked for help in dissuading Lot from joining your side of this conflict. I
refused, saying I’d have no part in either side of the conflict embroiling my
children.” She sighs and stares up at the sky. “If what you’re saying is true, I
suppose staying neutral is the same as being an enemy of justice. Doing
nothing only helps the devils. Yet I am weak—”
“You are not!” Arthur roars.
“I am weak,” Anna repeats, raising her palm, “because I did not see the
winds of change earlier. I should have seen that bloody tidal wave incoming,
yet I stayed mute. Hidden. I was wrought with grief, especially after losing
Gaheris, Gareth, and Agravain. This conflict has already claimed so much
from me, yet it’s one that never ceases. And I fear it won’t until we’re all dead.”
Her monologue is heavy, and I’m not sure where she’s going with it. Is she
explaining this to . . . herself ? To try and find understanding in the madness?
“You ask me to thrust the sword, Arthur. Well, my blade is dull. But that
doesn’t mean I’m foolish enough to deny what has happened here. I don’t
remember much after meeting with Morgan le Fay a fortnight ago. King
Bagdemagus tells me I was imprisoned in a cage, in his kingdom. It wasn’t
until we retreated from that blasphemous land surrounding Morgan’s castle
that I realized what had happened. And I’m still, only now, reconciling the
truth—that my own sister kidnapped me and waged war on this kingdom
using a mask of my own face, flesh, and blood.”
I was right. I looked out from her eyes in that cell.
“She deceived us all, Anna.” Arthur firms his lips. “Do not blame yourself
for that.”
Anna pauses. “You think you can stop such a cunning evil? Then I give you
free rein to try. I won’t stand in your way, Arthur. While you’re gone, I will
make sure Leudonia remains standing and peaceful, Gawain.”
Before anyone can answer, cheer, thank her, or whatever, King Bagdemagus
steps forward and salutes with his fist to his chest. “I will join you, too. You’ve
inspired an old man, Arthur.” He chuckles. “One of the last kings to ride
alongside King Uther, and still stand today. That has to count for something.”
“It would count for everything to have your support, King Bagdemagus,”
Arthur assures. “My father was proud to call you an ally. As will I be.”
“You have it. Along with the full backing of the army of Gorre . . . except
the forces already aligned with the Witch Queen, of course.”
“Of course,” Arthur says with a small bow.
My heart is fit to burst. Everything is finally working in our favor. I don’t
want to muck up the proceedings by mentioning how we are the reason
Bagdemagus is one of the only kings from Uther’s era still standing today. All
that, and what it means, is a bit much to unpack right now.
“We will join, too,” comes a new voice from behind us, at the edge of the
portcullis leading into the courtyard.
Everyone spins around. My brow furrows from the familiarity of that
voice. A wry smile greets me, crooked on a dashing face. Next to that face,
glinting green eyes and two pigtails of plaited gold hair.
 A squeak rips from my throat. “Tristan! Iseult! You’ve made it!”
Tristan waltzes into the courtyard. “Of course we’ve made it, Lady Guin.
And with us, camping just over the western hill outside this city, are six
hundred of Hibernia’s finest, allied with two hundred Logres warriors. Ready
to do battle.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 46
Guinevere

Talk about a changing of the tide. Just when things seem bleakest, we get a
renewed surge of hope. Princess Dindrane is keeping Listenoise in check.
Queen Anna has agreed to watch over Leudonia. Lady Mary and Rhys are
helping us in Sauvage.
With the eight hundred soldiers from Tristan and Iseult’s escapades in
Hibernia, we’re ready to actually do some damage.
It’s exciting and terrifying. I’d still like to end this without much bloodshed,
but it might be beyond my control at this point. The people are eager to rid
the country of the pestilence infecting it. Morgan le Fay is the head, and
Mordred is the heart. They both have to go.
Little do they know, if the prophecy is true, it won’t do much to the Rot. It might keep it
at bay for a while, but until the male Pendragon bloodline ends . . . I try not to think of
that right now, so I can focus on the positives.
Over dinner that evening, with Anna at the head of the long table, and
King Bagdemagus, Princess Iseult, and Tristan as guests, I think about
everything that’s happened.
A smirk comes to my lips as I dig into the roasted quail in front of me. It’s
hot and delicious.
“What’s that mischievous smile for, you little rogue?”
I glance over at Arthur to my right, the curl of my lip still present. “Just
thinking.”
There’s loud chatter all around the table—much more constructive than last
time we were here with the nobles. Rather than skepticism and doubts, my ears
are met with hope and optimism. The constant din makes it impossible for
anyone to hear my low conversation with King Arthur.
“Thinking about what?” he presses.
 “You called it a ‘realm of kings’ in your speech. I don’t think that’s quite
right.”
He raises a single brow. “Oh? I thought it sounded good enough. Please,
enlighten me, little girl.”
I snort with a laugh. “Well, we could just as easily call it a realm of queens,
couldn’t we?”
His other brow rises to join the first.
I spread my hand out before us. “Just look who’s helping us, everywhere we
turn. Dindrane in Listenoise, Anna in Leudonia, Mary in Sauvage, Iseult in
Hibernia. Hell, even Lady Freya in Camelot. Women. All of them.”
His stern expression softens with an honest smile. “It’s hard to argue with
that. Look who leads us, too . . . Ever Queen.” His eyes sparkle.
My cheeks flame. “That’s more of a title than anything else. I’m not actually
—”
“Don’t be foolish,” he interrupts. “I meant what I said to my sister, Guin.
We are nothing without you.”
My throat constricts, making it hard to swallow. “Oh,” I eke out, not sure
what else to say. I meant it, too, when I said I am nothing without them.
From my arrival on Pomparles Bridge to here? I never would have seen any
of this coming—four kings and a demonic knight seeing me as a messiah for
their cause. Obsessed with me in all ways. Worshipful, even.
God, I love these men. I can’t lose any of them.
The person I was when I came here doesn’t resemble who I am now. Not
in the least. I came here full of doubts, sadness, grief over a crappy breakup
and the death of my beloved grandmother. Now, I feel empowered,
emboldened, and more confident than ever. I feel beautiful every time my
mates look at me with that hunger in their eyes. I feel like I can actually make a
difference here, which I could never do in my world.
Merlin’s ultimatum to stay here forever, or leave and never return, is starting
to heavily weigh in one direction.
Arthur says, “You aren’t wrong, though, little one. We could have never
done this without the women supporting our efforts. Same as it ever was, I
believe. It simply used to be less outspoken. Logres has always succeeded on
the backs of strong women who hold things together while their husbands,
sons, and fathers go off and play at war, swinging swords and banging shields
together.”
 I tilt a smile at him and snicker. “Not much different than my world,
either.” When he matches my gaze, I sigh. “What comes next, Arthur? I mean,
now that we have the armies . . .”
Something in his dazzling eyes makes me pause and trail off. I swallow hard
and stare into those silver-flecked orbs. Desire thrums deep in my belly. I
notice my thighs are clenched tightly together, as if to stave off the burning
heat coming off that devilish grin and every ounce of his being.
With a little cough, I finally break my stare—
Only to feel his hand under the table, smoothing along my thigh.
Loosening me with his soft but commanding touch.
My cheeks grow hotter, my face flush. I stammer, “A-Arthur,” while he
pries my legs apart and sinks his fingers deeper between my legs.
Eyes darting, I catch others staring. My knights, my kings, feeding off my
energy and wantonness like hungry vampires. Across the table, conversation
has stopped between Gawain and Percival. Their brown- and blue-eyed combo
eats me up, and I can’t help but lean closer into Arthur’s shoulder. On the
other side of him, Lancelot peers down under the edge of the table. Down . . .
as Arthur’s fingers sink into the waistband of my pants and slide over my
puffy lips.
I let out a mewl and screw my eyes shut, burying my cry of pleasure into
his bicep as his first finger sinks into my drenched pussy, to his knuckle. He
runs gentle circles over my clit with the pad of his thumb, and then a second
finger joins the first inside me.
My neck cranes and my dewy eyes implore him, begging him. “We . . . we
can’t.” I scan the others seated here—soldiers, knights, Anna, Bagdemagus,
Iseult, Tristan. “There are so many people here.” They’re still locked in
conversation around the table, clinking chalices and toasting and drinking
merrily. Not realizing the Ever Queen is getting defiled right under their noses,
beneath the table.
“I’ll take you in front of them all, little girl. Just watch me.”
A new hand falls on my right thigh and I suck in a gasp.
Kay murmurs in my ear, “We both will, little lamb. Let your kings pleasure
you until you unravel at the seams in front of everyone.”
My head shakes on its own volition. I inhale a sharp breath and don’t let it
out. Kay’s hand joins Arthur’s above my belly, his touch tender, and suddenly
it’s very cramped and stuffed down there.
 Yes . . . stuffed. God, let them stuff me full. I can’t take this! It’s been so long since I’ve
had all my men.
While Arthur works my clit in lazy circles, two of Kay’s fingers join his
king’s. There’s four now, widening me, splaying me legs apart, curving deep
into my wet heat.
My legs shake under the table. My hands curl into fists as I try my hardest
to hold back the itching moan clawing at the back of my throat.
Their thick fingers swirl together to become a single spear of bliss,
skewering me deep while they watch me come apart and tremble. My eyes roll
and they smile at each other on opposite sides of me.
“Not fair,” Gawain growls in a low voice across from us. “Playing with our
pretty queen and leaving us here to watch.”
Percival chuckles. “Anna is right. Guin really has made cuckolds of us all,
hasn’t she?”
“Fuck that,” Lancelot drawls from Arthur’s left. “Get your ass out of that
seat, fireheart. Go to the biggest bedroom you can find in this castle, and wait
for us.” He meets the gazes of the others, and says, “Are we in agreement?”
Everyone nods hungrily, their smoldering glares never leaving my flushed
face.
“Then go,” Lancelot orders.
I grapple the tablecloth hanging over the edge, gripping it tight. “I-I can’t. I
can’t move. I’m soaked all the way through. Everyone will noti—”
“It wasn’t a question, fireheart.”
I gulp and take in Lancelot’s golden stare. Nod numbly, while Arthur and
Kay’s fingers leave my center and leave me wanting so, so much more.
When I try to stand, my knees buckle.
I land awkwardly on my ass, on Arthur’s knee.
He grunts. “Fine. We’ll help.”
Before I can process what he’s saying, he dips his arms under my thighs
and back, and abruptly stands from the table. I gasp when my head flops, hair
flying all over my face, and he lifts me in a bridal carry.
Conversation dims to a low thread across the table, and Arthur says, “Lady
Guinevere is not feeling well. We will retire for the night.”
With that, he turns and carries me away like I weigh nothing. My calves
bump against his arm and my head tucks into his chest.
 The murmurs from the table become louder as we depart, and I hear the
whispers underneath their words. Everyone knows what’s happening. Chairs
squeak as I assume my other knights rise from the table to say their farewells.
Arthur doesn’t take me far. We leave the dining room, gain a set of stairs,
and meander down a hall or two. I can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart
against my cheek—calm, collected—while mine slams erratically in my ribcage.
I glance up as we pass under the frame of a door.
Seconds later, I’m dumped onto a bed, out of his arms, and let out a
surprised squeal. I’m on my back, taking him in as he drags his tunic over his
head and shows me his bare chest. Every chiseled muscle flexes and twitches
with virility and strength.
Footsteps sound from down the hall. Shadows fill the space of the door
behind him. My breath catches as Lancelot, Gawain, Percival, and Kay stand
alongside King Arthur.
I prop up on my elbows. “What . . . what happens next?”
Their eyes burn into me. Shirts and tunics fly off, baring themselves, until
I’m the only clothed one in the room. The bed I’m on is wide—not big
enough for six people, of course, but I’m sure we’ll find ways of making it
work.
Arthur answers for them, his voice rich and throaty. “The Kings of the
Round Table are going to share you, Ever Queen. We’re going to brand you,
fill you with more pleasure than you know what to do with, and show you how
obsessed we really are with you.”
My eyes zoom past their broad shoulders. “But you didn’t even close the
door.”
“I know,” he answers, voice dripping with wickedness. “That’s because, by
night’s end, we want everyone to know who the real Queen of Logres is. They
must learn who holds all the power in this land.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 47
Guinevere

My stomach drops when Arthur grabs me by both ankles. He slides me to the

edge of the bed, my legs framing his sculpted body, and I stifle a yelp from the
rug-burn. The prickles along my skin smoothe out and meld with the sticky
pleasure between my legs.
Towering over me, their shadows falling over my face and body, I can only
stare in delight as their faces slice with rictus grins. They’re studying me like
I’m a prized morsel they’re about to devour. I can only hope it’s true, because
this is everything I’ve ever wanted.
“Tomorrow,” Arthur says, “we begin preparations for our war on
Mordred’s Camelot. Tonight . . . we make it all worth it. Do you understand,
little girl?”
My neck goes rigid, hollowing out at the base, and I nod fervently. How can
this brute of a man call me his little girl and his Ever Queen in the same breath? I have a
feeling I’m going to understand it a lot better once they’re through with me.
The king pushes my legs together and starts to peel my pants down my
wide hips, my thighs—and they stick at my knees. He bares his teeth,
obviously in a hurry to see my glistening pussy, and rips them with a brutal
tearing sound the rest of the way.
Then he tosses my torn pants over his shoulders and I frown. “Hey. I liked
those pants.”
“You won’t be needing them. I’ll get you new ones.”
Gawain says, “That is if we ever let you wear anything around us again.”
Kay snorts. “That’s a good idea, brother. Leave her bare, forever, so we can
take her whenever we want?”
My eyes swerve between them, talking so nonchalantly about my
domination. “I’m not your free-use toy, you know.” But God, how I want to be.
“To me, you are,” Lancelot rumbles.
 “Yes . . .” Percival says, tapping his chin as he trails off. “And for the rest of
us, well, that can change, snoop.”
Now that my pants are gone, Arthur palms my kneecaps and begins to
spread me. Conversation dies when I open my legs to the knights. The bulges
grow between their legs, straining against leather and coarse fabric.
“My, my,” I say lustily, “that looks uncomfortable.”
This is where I show my control over them. They want me as a toy they can use whenever
they want? Fine. As long as they understand that it works both ways.
These men are my playthings, whether they know it or not.
Soon, they’ll accept it.
I wag my hips teasingly.
Arthur lets out a grunt of frustration and is the first to step out of his
pants. His huge cock rockets up, already harder than a hammer, and he fists it
at the base. My king, with his royal cock meant to destroy me. How I never get tired of
seeing that massive thing.
The others join him, and within seconds we’re all naked together, in the
open-door room. Any passing soldier or noble could see us—even our friends
like Iseult and Tristan.
But that’s what they want. It’s what they’re counting on.
King Arthur kneels before me and leans his face between my legs. His
hands roam over my thighs and grip tightly to my flesh while he laves his
tongue over the same spot he was fingering just minutes ago.
The other knights spread out to take opposing sides at the bed.
I bow my back and roll my hips, staring up at the chandelier over the bed.
Seeing the crystal-and-steel apparatus overhead makes me think of all the
other apparatuses these men have used on me.
Stockades, magical vines, wooden saddle dildos, freaking musical instruments.
There’s no rope or chains here, boys. It looks like this will be a good old-
fashioned ravaging with just their hard cocks to satisfy me. I have to wonder
how they all plan on fitting—
Arthur’s dick slams inside me, using my natural wetness to lubricate his
insane size. My thoughts cut short, abruptly turning me into a mindless, starry-
eyed heap.
When my mouth falls open, he smiles down at me.
“I couldn’t wait any longer, little one.”
 I have no complaints. He fills me so deeply, stretching me out—but even
with his size, I know I can take more.
I’ve done it before, albeit briefly.
“Fuck, she looks too delicious skewered like that,” Gawain snarls. The dark
knight crawls onto the bed just as Arthur’s cock hits my deepest point and
sends a rush of ecstasy pitter-pattering through my arms and legs and belly.
Pressure builds at my core, and I know I’m going to unravel before long.
A shadow falls over me as Gawain straddles my chest. His big cock slaps
against my face and my eyes go crossways trying to see past the underside of
his girth.
“First we break you, little lark,” he says, pinching my nose, “and then we
build you back together.”
I croak, letting out a breath through my mouth since my nose is plugged,
and then try to inhale—
Gawain thrusts his cock past my parted lips, drilling deep into my throat.
I gag, snorting, tears running down my cheeks.
It’s happened so fast. One minute, I was okay. Next, they’re doing whatever
they want to me.
We become an entangled mass of limbs and euphoria.
Gawain holds my head at both sides and pelts his heavy balls against my
chin, fucking my face deep into the mattress of the bed. Arthur bucks his hips,
coring me out.
I can’t see. All I can do is feel. Embrace the pleasure that comes from these
hard men. Give myself to them for all they’ve done for me, and all they will do
for me.
My hands grip the sheets at either side, to keep my body from bouncing
too hard on the bed. Then those sheets are replaced with hard, warm cocks,
and without seeing I know I’m gliding my palms over Kay and Lancelot. I can
tell by their size and shape.
A third body joins the first two on top of me, taking up the small space in
the middle—a bare ass landing lightly on my stomach. Percival’s long cock
curves between my tits and I hear him slurping.
Gawain grunts while the angel-headed knight directly behind him rims his
asshole.
“No, Percival,” Arthur commands, “get your tongue out of his ass. We’re
dedicating ourselves to the Ever Queen tonight.”
 Percy breathes, “I can do both.” His fingers tease my nipples into hard
nubs. They swirl and rub, pinch and fondle, and then he squeezes my breasts
together and sandwiches his cock between them.
He continues tonguing Gawain’s ass while he thrusts between my tits,
keeping himself slightly lifted off my belly so he doesn’t crush me.
Normally, this act would be solely for his pleasure. But feeling that warm,
turgid length sliding so effortlessly between me, and seeing the spark of
strained, barely held-back pleasure in Gawain’s face over me, with a glistening
strand of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth, turns it into something
I enjoy immensely.
It isn’t long before I’m lost in their mutual camaraderie. Losing myself and
coming with a toe-curling orgasm as Arthur strikes deep inside me.
Then I’m wiggling in the bed, throwing my ass against him. Craning my
neck to bob my mouth along Gawain’s length. Gripping Lancelot and Kay
tight, blindly jerking them off until they’re smearing precum on my palms,
growing even stiffer.
“Everyone off,” Arthur commands, and the knights do as commanded.
Gawain pulls his cock out of my throat and Percival hops off my belly.
I’m smothered in the bed, spread-eagled, breathing heavily. A whoosh of
air flies into my lungs, no longer pinned under Percival and Gawain’s
combined weight. I’m staring up listlessly at the chandelier, which is doubling
in my vision. My body trembles and quakes.
Arthur reaches down, cups my back, and lifts me. His spearing cock never
leaves my pussy as he hoists me off the bed and keeps me airborne, legs
dangling.
I wrap my legs around his waist.
Then I’m bouncing, planted on Arthur.
A warm body rubs up against my back. I can smell Lancelot’s pine and
earthy scent, his breath wafting on the nape of my neck, his chest gliding
across my spine. The demonic knight lifts my thighs higher, until my knees are
nearly touching the sides of my face. Turning me into a fucking pretzel so he
can squeeze in—
And feed his cock past the tight ring of my asshole.
My two biggest knights have me plugged at both ends, and I nearly lose
consciousness from the sudden hit of happy chemicals raging through my
brain.
 I come in seconds, for a second time. When my body flexes this time, my
feet are jumping near Arthur’s shoulders in front of me. My thighs burn from
the stretched angle, but it’s nothing compared to my stretched holes below.
They hug me against them, king and knight working in tandem. I moan and
bounce.
The others can only stand to watch for so long.
Percival moves in first, off to the side. He says, “I hope you’re ready for
this, snoop,” and then slides the head of his dick against Arthur’s shaft. He
angles himself and my eyes go wide when I realize what he’s doing.
I shake my head in fear, but no words come out.
Percy’s cock joins Arthur’s inside me, stuffing me to the brim. My jaw drops
on a silent scream, and I wonder how I can possibly take such massive men at
the same time, in the same hole.
I’m foolish to think it would have stopped there.
Kay comes in next, at the other side, languidly stroking himself as he hums
and watches me break before my knights. He smiles wickedly at me, and all I
can do is mewl. “This might hurt, lamb. But then you’ll love it.”
I gasp. Is he—what—there’s no room!
Kay’s thick cock joins Lancelot’s. Stretching, stuffing, bending to the
correct angle . . .
Blackness dims my vision when his cockhead kisses the nerves of my
gaping asshole, and he manages to slam his tip in beside Lancelot. He can’t
move much inside my tight ass—not with two dicks skewering me, and both
of them huge—but he doesn’t have to.
My insides let loose and I shower their four cocks in a waterfall. It’s a
torrential downpour that doesn’t let up for many long seconds.
Arthur murmurs, “Give us all of you, Ever Queen. Give us your
everything.”
Gawain says, “Still not fair,” and tries to come in from the side, but there’s
no room for him. My four broad-shouldered knights are taking up all the
space from the shorter one. “If someone doesn’t let me in, I’m going to fuck
Percival in the ass and ruin this train,” he says with a scowl. “I’m going to
make his knees buckle.”
I can’t answer him. I’m still bouncing incessantly, though the strokes and
thrusts have become shorter and slower so I don’t literally break in two. I’ve
never felt such insane stuffing, both my holes crammed with two cocks apiece
—and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
My mind short-circuits, and I simply can’t stop my body from coming and
quivering and shaking from constant climaxes.
“Do your worst, little knight,” Percy chuckles, using Kay’s moniker for him.
Gawain bares his teeth, sets himself up behind Percival, and does exactly
what he warned he’d do. When his cock pushes inside Percy’s ass, I can feel
Percy grow bigger next to Arthur inside me—throbbing and pulsating.
A few seconds pass, and then Percival gasps, “I’m going to come inside
you, snoop.”
“Do it!” I scream past a dry knot in my throat.
I’ve been rendered speechless for minutes. Feeling is only starting to come
back to my legs. I haven’t even been able to moan, but perhaps that’s for the
best.
I hear voices down the hall, and a second later—
“Oh, my. We, uh, we should get going,” says someone in the hall as their
face passes by the door.
“Should we close the door?” another man asks.
“I’d rather join in,” says a third. “Do you see how they’re—”
“We don’t share!” Arthur roars. “Out!”
Hurried footsteps scurry down the hall.
Percival groans in my ear, hand running over my head, and floods my
insides with cum. His seed squelches around Arthur’s cock, and then he steps
aside.
Gawain finishes with his ass and steps up beside me, taking his place. He
earnestly slams his cock into my cunt, joining Arthur. With a sneering grin, he
says, “My cock is so warm plunging into your cum, sunflower. Thank you.”
Kay and Lancelot seem to be growing bigger by the second. I’ll never be
able to sit again. I just know—
Kay pulls out. He gasps breathlessly, and Lancelot joins him shortly after.
I’m a gaped mess, and one of them—can’t tell by the tongue itself—licks
my widened hole.
Arthur says, “I’m bending her over the bed,” and lifts me off his and
Gawain’s cocks.
He carries my trembling body and puts me on my hands and knees like I’m
a little toy dog. I crawl up to the edge of the bed, gasping for breath, clawing
at the sheets.
My knights mount me, one after the other. They slam themselves deep
inside me and run a train on my poor abused holes. Their balls slap against me
as they thrust down, gouge me into a blubbering mess, and then step aside to
let the next knight in.
Some of them take my pussy, some take my ass. There’s no rhyme or
reason. The one thing they have no issue with this time is coming inside me.
I’m not sure when or why that changed. Perhaps they know we have a high
chance of dying in the coming days, so it really doesn’t matter anymore.
They’ve tossed their inhibitions and caution aside.
I moan loudly, undeterred, knowing the exhibition is already known to the
rest of the castle. My knights have gotten their way, though I’m not sure if
anyone could think I possibly have control over this situation.
Then I dwell on that as my body rocks forward on the bed, and I raise my
ass higher for the next brutal knight to stuff me. I’m the only one that turns them
into rabid animals like this. That is where my control comes from.
In my world, I’m powerless. Inconsequential.
Here? I’m everything. I’m the fucking Ever Queen.
The night goes for hours, yet it feels so fast. The pleasure riding my body is
better than my wildest dreams.
When one of them spews my hole with cum, the next one uses it as lube
and does the same. These brothers work together and have no shame about
what they’re doing.
It’s all in the name of unbridled pleasure. An overload of it. Arthur was the
first, and he’s the last. When he coats my insides with his thick seed, I feel all
my knights trickling out of me in rivers of cum, down the backs of my thighs,
pooling at the backs of my knees and on the carpeted floor.
They step back, hands on hips, and survey their conquest. Their mutual
destruction.
My ass is still up. My body convulses and I squirt again. They chuckle. I
blink in the numb aftermath.
“You did well, my queen,” Arthur says in a low voice. “You took all of us.
You gave us everything.”
I nod dumbly. My sweaty cheek is pressed against the mattress. I’m staring
blindly at the wall on the other side of the room. Every once in a while, I
spasm with aftershocks.
 Percival excuses himself and returns a minute later with a hot, steaming
cloth. He wipes me down, then hands the cloth to the others, and they help.
Gawain cleans my face. Percival gets my breasts. Lancelot and Arthur and
Kay wash my pussy and rear and hands, respectively. Wherever the knights
individually branded me, they clean. They tuck me into the bed and curl
around me. Stroking my hair, bringing me back to the land of the living.
Entwining their legs with their Ever Queen’s, eager to keep me close.
Gawain leaves with Kay and returns with trays of food, since they know
I’m going to be ravenous whenever I wake up out of my sex coma.
My knights destroy me . . . and build me back better. They care for me after they ruin
me. I’ve never felt something so raw and visceral. Never had such a feeling of
fullness as when I bounced on them at the same time.
All of them alone can dominate me and bring me to orgasm over and over,
but it’s when they’re together that they’re at their finest. It’s these tender
moments afterward that mean everything. Showing their true colors—the
lengths of their camaraderie and loyalty. Their ability to share, for my sake.
Even Lancelot and Gawain, who have been enemies up until recently,
managed to work together.
I can’t ask for more than that.
As I drift off into contented bliss, I think about my Knights of the Round
Table. My kings. And I know, with certainty, that I never want to be apart from
them. If it means I can never leave Logres, so be it.
This is my home now.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 48
Mordred

She’s charging through the street on the steed she stole, her body bobbing
with every fierce slam of the hooves on the cobblestones. Her brilliant red
curls bounce on her shoulders. Her white gown flows in the whipping breeze.
I’m chasing her. The white mask covers my face. Hides my shame. In
reality, this chase went the other way around—she pursued me, and I relished
the hunt. Laughed as I bound toward the gates of Camelot on my steed.
In my mind, I’m chasing her. Gripping the reins, closing the gap, gaining on
her. I reach out for her white dress but it slips through my hand.
She puts some distance between us.
I growl and the bed shakes from my exertion.
My steed hurries and I gain on the less-experienced rider. The beautiful
woman I’ve been chasing since she stepped foot into Camelot. I’ve never been
able to catch her. She’s untamable. Wild and free. Like a bird that won’t be
caged, flapping incessantly against the steel bars.
I can’t keep her down, and I don’t want to.
I’m closer now, almost within reach.
She looks over her shoulder. I expect fear in her eyes—
I gasp and nearly lose myself.
Silver lips curl wickedly across her pale cheeks. The eyes are purple—all
wrong—and she slows to let me catch up.
Aunt Morgan?! I cry out in my mind, feeling betrayed by the wrong face on
my Mistress of the Bridge. Get out of my head! You don’t belong here! You don’t own
me!
My clenched eyes shoot open, and I’m staring up at the ceiling, my
forehead sweaty. My eyes level to the floor so I can ground myself. I’m
perched on the edge of the bed, holding the base of my cock in one hand,
while my other hand strokes my thick shaft.
 My cockhead bulges, the slit expanding, widening—
No, no, it can’t end like this! My eyes close and I return to my misguided
dream. I’m giving chase to Guinevere through the endless roads and banked
turns of Camelot City. When I gain on her and reach out for her shoulder,
trying to snag my prey, she turns again—
And it’s Guinevere’s beautiful face I see this time. Smiling knowingly at me,
her red brow cocked with that mischievous glint I love so much. Her white
teeth shine like coruscating pearls—begging me to catch her. To never give up
my mad hunt.
My strokes become furious, my grip tightening until I’m fucking my hand.
The palm at the base of my length moves to my full balls, fondling and
groping until they grow tight against me. She’ll come. I know she’ll come. She must.
She. Has. To. COME—
My eyes jolt open and every muscle contracts. I let out a strangled groan
and euphoria rifles through me as ropes of cum shoot from my cock, slashing
against the wall, the floor, and finally dribbling between my legs.
I’m heaving afterward. Staring down at my softening cock in my hand.
Watching my cum drip from the tip down the crease of my balls and pool
between my thighs. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. It takes a moment for
me to compose myself, as the lovely daydream of Guinevere gently fades from
my mind.
It doesn’t take long for the shame to wrap its talons around me and
squeeze. I shake my head, muttering to myself about how pathetic I’ve
become.
I can’t let the Mistress of the Bridge sway my plans, my ambitions. But
what’s the point of it all without the woman I yearn for? If I can’t have her, I
don’t want this crown.
How can she not see she’s being deceived? The Knights of the Round
Table are a gang of hypocrites. Their superior attitude led to their downfall,
and once the people stopped supporting them, it was the beginning of the
end.
I’ve gotten the citizens of Camelot excited again. United, in preparation for
the grand ball I have planned. The open-castle invitation that my heralds
announced across every nook and cranny in the city. It will bring her to me. I want
her—no, need her—and she will come to her wits. Once we’re face to face, I can make it
make sense for her.
 “Oh, my poor boy,” comes a voice from the door.
The same door I swore I had locked.
With a start, my head snaps over to find Morgan le Fay in the frame, with
her arms crossed under her ample chest, posturing for me. There’s a sly twist
of pity to her features, and it angers me beyond belief.
Heart hammering, I quickly stand, pull my trousers up from my knees, and
stuff myself away as I turn away from her. “A-Aunt Morgan,” I croak over my
shoulder. My cheeks burn pink. “You’re back.”
“Such a big, potent, strapping young man,” she murmurs, her thin brow
lifted to her forehead. Her eyes haven’t moved from the floor, where my cum
stains the tiles. Despite the sheer volume of my eruption, it’s a sad, pitiful
sight. The fact Morgan has seen me at my weakest mortifies and humiliates
me.
Then she says, “Do you require assistance?”
I gawk, eyes bulging. Darker color comes to my pink cheeks. “N-No!
Privacy, woman. Get out of here!” I flap a hand at her. “You shouldn’t have
seen that.”
Her lips curve into a smirk. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, my sweet
prince.”
I furrow my brow and compose myself enough to meet her steely, eerie
gaze. “What?”
One side of her smirk lifts higher than the other. “Never mind, boy.”
Would it hurt her so badly to call me “king”—to refer to me as my title dictates, rather
than patronize me like she always does? Everyone in the castle sees the way she calls me her
“sweet prince” and her “boy.” They won’t take me seriously if they don’t respect me.
I’m not sure what she meant about her last comment. I don’t want to delve
too deeply into it.
I shake my head and put two fingers to my temples, rubbing gently to try
and calm myself down. When I look up, Morgan’s gaze is angry and intense.
“This isn’t Gorre, Aunt Morgan. You have no sway over me here.”
Her head tilts. “Where is this coming from, hmm?”
“You wanted to bring our enemies to us? Well, I’ve made a plan to do just
that. Guinevere will come here—”
“You sound so sure of yourself.”
“—but she won’t come here for you.”
 Morgan lets out a scoff. The knowing smirk fades into a sneer. “Honestly,
Mordred, you’re so dramatic at times.”
No, you don’t get to make light of this. “I don’t forgive you for what you did to
Baucillas.”
“You mean the same surgeon who was orchestrating an uprising against
you? Using your trustworthiness to play you like a fool? That Baucillas?”
“He wasn’t the enemy!” I yell, frustrated. He was the only person in this
damnable castle I could talk to. “Not everyone who speaks to me is my enemy.
You don’t get to claim that title for everyone I associate with. For shame,
woman—sending me away to slaughter him behind my back.”
She shrugs nonchalantly. “The surgeon tried to escape.”
“He could barely walk!” My voice goes hoarse. I take a step toward her,
narrowing my eyes so I can analyze her pristine face. “Or were you . . .
jealous?”
There’s a twitch in her jaw. I know I’ve gotten to her. It’s the expression of
someone who realizes they’ve lost total control of me. I meant it: This isn’t
Gorre. The Land of No Return, where her magic is strongest and most
potent, has no hold over me here.
I can see clearly, perhaps for the first time.
Morgan is not my enemy—how could she be when she aided me so
successfully in gaining the crown? But she’s not faultless, either. She’s shown
her flaws and had her fair share of failures, like me. Failures she’d rather not
discuss.
“I don’t forgive you about Baucillas,” I repeat, “and I’m aware how you
orchestrate my reign every step of the way.”
She pouts, arms uncrossing at her chest. “I’ve only done what’s in your best
interest, Mordred.”
“Oh? And where were you for the past two weeks? You keep leaving and
returning without anything to show for it. Your misadventures have been
failures, Aunt Morgan.” I gulp and brace myself. “Perhaps it’s time you step
aside.”
“Step aside?” Her tone is genuinely curious.
I nod, fighting back the emotion in my throat, and the feeling of betrayal in
my heart. Something inside tells me, Don’t give up on her. You can’t toss her aside just
because things are not going your way. Everything will change after the ball.
 Gritting my teeth, I try to soften the blow. I’m hardly able to meet her
shrewd, otherworldly eyes for longer than a second. “Just for a while, perhaps.
Your power is failing. So, yes, I think you should let me execute my plans. Let
me make you proud of me. You can’t hold my hand forever, Aunt Morgan. I
am King of Camelot. Not you.”
She studies me. Reads my face for weakness, which she does so well and so
often. “I’ve heard you’re planning a massive party. The whole city is invited.” She
throws her arms up, her tone sarcastic. Disapproving. Like always.
I give her a curt nod. “It will bring everyone we want to us. And I will be
ready.”
With a disgusted snort, she says, “We will be ready, my dear. I will not
abandon you when you are at your weakest.”
“I’m not at my weakest!”
Her eyes flash to the cum drying on the floor.
My lip peels back, unreasonable anger rising through me. “I needed relief.
Now I’m fine. Please, Aunt Morgan, don’t ruin my plans with schemes of your
own. Let Guinevere come. Let me deal with her how I see fit. I can turn her to
our side. Don’t you see?”
Clicking her tongue, she shuts the door behind her. With it closed, I feel my
safety is gone. I’m at her mercy.
The room becomes instantly stifling. Goosebumps run up my arms when
she steps toward me, swaying her hips alluringly, drawing my eyes. I blink
rapidly. My head feels fuzzy. My lips part. My eyes dip to her heavy breasts,
bouncing in her low-cut black dress. When she’s a few feet away, I step back.
But my legs run into the edge of the bed.
She reaches up and cups my cheek. Her eyes search my face. “Oh, my sweet
boy. When will you learn? When will you understand?”
I swallow hard. “Learn? Understand what?” I can’t tear my eyes away from
her, can’t peel back from her cold palm.
Her expression is pitying again, and I hate it.
Then her words come out, syrupy and wrought with eeriness I can’t shake.
“When will you learn you don’t make the decisions around here?”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 49
Guinevere

We spend the next week bouncing between Leudonia and Listenoise,

mobilizing our army. Making sure Queen-Regent Dindrane and Queen Anna
have the support they need while we’re on our campaign.
With the fyrds of those kingdoms raised, each with nearly a thousand
soldiers, plus the combined might of the Sorestan-Hibernian troops,
Bagdemagus’ Gorre army, and the guerilla fighters of Sauvage, we number
nearly four thousand.
It’s a serious fighting force.
I have to remember this isn’t modern times. In my world, four thousand
soldiers might not seem like a lot. Here, the population is much smaller. The
range of able-bodied, fighting men and women of age is narrow. Plus, not
everyone agrees with our plight, so we’re only picking up percentages wherever
we go. I refuse to use a draft system to build our army. I won’t force people to
fight for us—they would only become liabilities, since they won’t fight with the
same fervor as the rest of us.
We’re only as strong as our weakest link.
Medieval armies, I imagine, never number in the tens of thousands. At least
that’s what I hope. Because if Mordred and Morgan le Fay have near their
estimated number of ten thousand, then we are seriously in deep shit.
Having a night alone with my boys—well, almost alone—meant everything
to me. It ignites me with a fire in my belly. I feel strong and validated and
unified with my men. All of them. My Oath of Devotion—or Oath of
Bondage, if you want to get kinky with it—has never been stronger. The
bonds are fucking tight.
I’m nervous, of course. Worried about what awaits us south—Kernow,
Lyonesse, Camelot, Morgan’s horde of wretchkin from Gorre. If Morgan truly
controls as many goblins as we fear she does, our rebellion in Camelot has to
be ready to roll once we get down there. I hope Baucillas, Sir Lamorak, and
Lady Freya have had enough time to start something as strong as the Avalon
Redeemed was, so they can rustle up some chaos and break Mordred’s army.
Our campaign will move in three regiments—three spearheads. The
western wing will comprise the Hibernian islanders, the troops of Pengwern
who know their homeland of Sorestan like the back of their hand, and the
Gorre troops. They are mostly footmen, peasants who learned a thing or two
over in Hibernia, and some heavy cavalry from Gorre. Tristan, Iseult, and
King Bagdemagus will lead that regiment.
The main thrust of our army will come from the center, the point of the
spear. The regiment consists of Leudonia’s fyrd—mostly infantry—and half
the Sauvage soldiers we’ll pick up on our journey south. Sauvage has tons of
archers and scouts, so that will be useful. Kings Gawain, Kay, and Arthur will
lead those companies.
The final wing, our eastern regiment, belongs to the Listenoise fyrd and the
remaining Sauvage group. They will act as a flanking unit, coming from the
northeast off to the side of the forested landscape outside Camelot proper.
Of course, they won’t have much cover once they reach Camelot, because the
King’s Wood is dead, gnarled, and easy to see through. But having three wings
is the goal. That company is led by King Percival, Sir Lancelot, and me.
Until we reach the halfway point south, our entire army will travel together.
That makes Gawain, Kay, and Arthur happy, because they can’t let me go.
I understand it. I can’t let them go, either.
Once we hit our breaking-off point near the center of Forest Sauvage, I
plan to split my time between the center and eastern wings. Arthur promises
we’ll camp only a few miles apart from each other, and I tell him I’m holding
him to that promise. I can’t be everywhere all at once, sadly.
If we don’t run into any conflict on the way, and keep to the paved
merchant roads and trade routes, the entire journey south will take
approximately two weeks. We’re counting on it taking longer, though. Probably
closer to three weeks or even a month. Jesus, can I really travel in one direction for a
whole freaking month?
If you had told me a year ago I’d be marching with King Arthur’s army
toward Camelot, to reclaim his throne and crown, I would have immediately
called the police and reported you missing from the insane asylum. I’d
probably also say something about you dosing too much acid.
 But here we are.
Our army stretches for miles due to the sheer number of supply carts,
loaded wagons, and draft horses carrying everything we need for a prolonged
campaign.
We don’t plan to go all the way to Camelot. The land there is arid and
almost desert-like due to the Rot. We’ll overheat and die in our armor,
especially without a water source nearby. No, we expect Mordred to see us
early and come out to fight us. At least that’s the goal.
Arthur told me Mordred would usually have no reason to meet us in the
field, because even if we surround the city and starve him out with a siege,
there are the southern forces from Kernow and Lyonesse we have to worry
about as reinforcements, plus the wretchkin horde to the north, if they aren’t
already at Camelot when we get there.
Arthur is banking on Mordred’s lust for revenge to flare his emotions and
get the better of him. He thinks Camelot will empty out by the time we’re a
day or two out, which means we’ll be fighting a pitched battle, hopefully in a
location of our choosing. Mordred and Morgan won’t want to get locked or
trapped in a lengthy siege.
That’s when we hope the rebellion inside Camelot will spring to life and
cause all sorts of mayhem. If we can get a friendly face to let us in through a
secret entrance or unguarded gate, we can end this thing before Mordred and
Morgan can fortify their defenses or get their army ready.
Arthur thinks we might end up fighting them on the Sarum Plains—a wide
stretch of grasslands Lancelot and I traveled through when we first escaped
Camelot.
I’ve learned quite a bit about military vernacular and tactics in the days I’ve
spent poring over the war map and listening to my knights argue about
strategy. There’s only so much planning you can do on paper, though, and now
all the strategies and fallbacks and ploys are swimming around in my head,
driving me crazy.
Once we hit the road, I know things will become much, much simpler. The
heady planning stages will drift away, and we’ll just be putting one foot in front
of the other.
Everyone in our army is convinced we’re fighting for the right reasons.
Even if the majority of our army isn’t from Camelot, they know the Rot
infecting the land will spread if we don’t stop the evil sorceress behind it, and
her minion nephew leading her army.
It’s the “minion nephew” I worry about . . . because I don’t want to kill him. I can’t
believe I’m thinking it, but it’s the truth.
Despite all the heartache he’s caused—Sir Dagonet’s death, Sir Galehaut’s
death, the Avalon Redeemed uprising that instigated this whole thing—I know
none of it would have happened if Morgan le Fay weren’t pulling the strings
behind the curtain.
Mordred was the first Knight of the Round Table I ever met. He’s a good
man, misguided by a wicked, hellbent mage who wants to use him for her own
diabolical purposes. It’s not his fault, in my opinion, that his mind has been
muddled and indoctrinated with Morgan’s evil lies.
Unfortunately, I can’t really get King Arthur to change his mind, much less
the other knights in my army who aren’t related to him. I mean, Gawain is the
nearest thing to kin that Mordred has in our army, being his brother—though
neither are aware they aren’t actually brothers—and that broody motherfucker I
love so much probably hates Mordred more than anyone else here!
I just have to hope that within the next few weeks while we’re traveling, I
can come up with some brilliant plan to divert this thing away from massive
bloodshed.
Good fucking luck to me.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 50
Guinevere

The first conflict comes to us four days into our journey. Honestly, it only
becomes a conflict because of me. Otherwise, it would simply be the first seed
of the brilliant plan I need to come up with.
It’s funny how that works—how one thing can lead to so much pain and
hope at the same time.
Our army has skirted around the northern tip of Forest Sauvage, opting for
open air and easier-to-traverse plains. We’re heading south along the “coastal”
route, which goes through Gorre and Sorestan and Sauvage.
It’s midday. The sun beats on us from above. Sweat beads my brow and
forehead. I squint into the distance to see a small troop of a dozen soldiers
arriving on horseback.
We’ve recruited a smattering of roaming soldiers during our first four days,
so this doesn’t come as a surprise.
When they get closer, and we see the royal purple banner with a double-
headed eagle coat of arms, Arthur brings our army to a stop with a raised fist.
It takes a long time for that order to reach all the way to the back of our army,
so we aren’t too happy about stopping.
Then Arthur says to me, “That’s Mordred’s coat of arms,” and my heart
starts rampaging in my chest.
Shit! “This far north?”
“Don’t worry, little one,” he says with a small smirk. “It’s not his army. Just
a few scouts. Probably messengers.”
“What do you think they want?”
“Let’s find out.”
When he dismounts off his horse, he helps me down off mine. The other
Knights of the Round Table are not about to let us go up to these strangers
alone. Before long, I have all my guys with me, and I feel much, much safer.
 The head soldier dismounts and walks toward us, leaving the rest of his
men about twenty feet behind him. He’s wearing nice armor and a cloak.
“Arthur, former King of Camelot,” the man says with a small bow once we’re
ten feet apart. I’m pretty sure that’s a smirk dancing on the corner of his
mouth.
Arthur says nothing for a long moment. Then: “Long way from home,
soldier.”
I stick near the back, next to Gawain and Lancelot.
“May I approach?” the man asks.
“Not if you have any ill will toward our group.”
He snorts. “I’m not going to try assassinating five of the most feared
warriors in the land, alone. Don’t worry.”
When he says “don’t worry,” my brow furrows.
The lilt of his voice is familiar . . .
He steps closer when Arthur allows him to. The sun slants across the
shadowed ridge of his helmet to give me a better look at his face.
I let out an audible, breathy gasp that has Arthur spinning around before
the man gets within five feet him.
Awful memories flood through me. The first two men I ever met here, near
Pomparles Bridge. Flip and Terrance. Would-be rapists, if Mordred hadn’t
shown up.
Flip is dead. This is Terrance.
And now . . . he wears the colors of Mordred? The same man who
beheaded his buddy when he was atop me?
My world tilts. I can’t make it make sense.
“Guin?” Arthur questions in a hiss.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. My hands curl into fists at
my sides, nails biting divots into my palms.
“I’ve been sent by King Mordred to deliver a message to you and your
party, sir,” Terrance drawls. “I’m glad I found you.”
“What is it—a truce? Terms of surrender?”
Terrance chuckles. “No, sir, nothing like that. It’s actually, um, an
invitation.”
Arthur puts his hands on his hips, waiting as Terrance reaches into the
tunic under his armor. Hands go to hilts next to me, as well as from the riders
behind Terrance, and the moment becomes tense, like my guys think he’s
going to pull out a gun or something.
Terrance raises a hand for peace, then comes out holding a rolled piece of
parchment. Before handing it off to Arthur, he points the parchment at me,
through the men. “Glad I ran into her, most of all.”
Arthur stiffens. His hand is in midair, and now it looks like he’s having
second thoughts about taking it, and might just swing Excalibur and behead
this fucker right here. “Why would you say that?” he spits through gritted
teeth.
Terrance smiles. It’s the same ugly smile he had on Pomparles, when he
watched Flip rip my shirt open and molest me. Trauma rears its ugly head,
beating a headache into my skull. I look away.
Terrance says, “Because she’s the one this message is intended for, sir.”
Arthur glances back at me. I’m not looking at him. Tears are welling in my
eyes, but I don’t want to show weakness. I survived that encounter unscathed,
thanks to Mordred. It also taught me a valuable lesson about this cruel, harsh
world I’d stumbled into: Never trust anyone.
Lancelot’s first words to me.
I can feel my demonic knight’s hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me.
Reassuring me. He doesn’t know what I’m feeling. He just knows it’s not right.
When something is wrong with their Ever Queen, all the guys notice. It’s an
intuitive thing. Could be the Oath of Devotion, or it could simply be our
strong relationship. It’s as if they feel my pain as much as I do.
Arthur takes the scroll and walks back through Percy and Gawain to stand
in front of me. “You’re upset, little one,” he whispers, holding the scroll out
for me. “Why?”
“I . . . I’ll be fine. It’s okay.”
“No. Tell me.”
I blink at him, fighting back the tears. My mouth opens but no words come
out. I don’t want this day to end in bloodshed, like I know it will if I tell him. Yet,
something inside me does want it to end like that. There’s a brooding rage I can
hardly contain, nipping at me.
I snatch the scroll from him to take my mind off it, and start to unravel it.
“For me?” I read the first few lines, furrowing my brow. “It’s . . . he’s not lying.
It’s an invitation.”
“To what?”
 “Mordred is throwing a . . . party? Um, he’s having a ball in less than three
weeks. Everyone in Camelot is invited. Even the commoners.”
Arthur winces and snatches the scroll from me. “Let me see that.” He reads
it over and makes the same flat, confused face I made. “What the fuck.”
Turning, he says to Terrance, “What is the meaning of this?”
The rapist shrugs. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Believe me, I tried to talk
him out of it. Too dangerous, you see.”
“What’s the point of it?”
Another shrug. “More animosity with the commoners, I suppose. Same
problem you had.” He lets out a huff. “King Mordred wants to be a man of
the people. He thinks this is the best way to show the people he loves them.”
“It will be madness. No peasant has stepped foot into the hallowed halls of
the Round Table before. He would desecrate—”
“I believe it’s that kind of thinking he’s trying to get away from.” Terrance
taps his temple in a gotcha-moment. “The privilege and entitlement you
knights own.”
Arthur frowns. “Why have you brought it to us? To Lady Guinevere?”
“Because the king wants to see her. He’s hoping you might make it.”
“Is he aware we’re marching south with an army to tear down his unlawful
regime?”
“I’m sure he is.”
Arthur lets out a grunt. “Then my nephew is more foolish than I even
thought.”
An idea is coming to me. Mordred wants to get close to me? Maybe this is the
opportunity I’ve been looking for. The chance to stop the bloodshed. If I can talk some sense
into him . . .
Arthur doesn’t really know how to respond to this, and I’m not about to
blurt out my new plan in front of this fucking asshole.
We almost make it.
Terrance says, “I’m going to turn around now and join my troop. You
promise us safe passage out of here, back south? As laws of engagement
dictate?”
“Yes. As long as you travel south and south only.”
Terrance gives Arthur a little bow.
I think, That’s it? He’s going to get away with it? Just how the fuck has this miscreant
gotten to such a high level? Why are the wicked always rewarded, and the good always
stepped on?
It’s not right.
Terrance looks past Arthur to me.
It’s the wink that does it.
“Good to see you again, Mistress of the Bridge. Hopefully we’ll see each
other again soon.”
My muscles tighten. His words are filled with innuendo. Fear, anxiety, and
past memories rip through me, punching a hole in my heart.
I firm my lips. My guys look at me with concerned expressions. My teeth
gnash together.
He moves to turn around.
“How is Flip doing?” I blurt.
He freezes. Over his shoulder, the snide, shitty little smile is on his lips.
“You should know, princess. You were there when his head was taken off.
Right there. So close.”
“Guin, what is he talking about?” Arthur growls.
I can’t hear him. Sounds have drowned away.
Something overcomes me, enveloping my whole body like a fallen angel’s
wings wrapping around my torso and caressing me with feathers. But these
feathers aren’t light and fluffy. They’re pins, needles, and daggers.
“Now you serve the same man who beheaded your friend?” I say with a
scoff. “How loyal.”
His grin grows bigger, which I know he’s only doing to piss me off even
more. “Loyalties change.”
I’m suddenly marching toward him, bumping into Gawain on the way,
squeezing past Percival and Arthur.
They step aside, their hands moving to the hilts of their swords as they see
their girl stepping into the face of danger.
Terrance is tall. He towers over me.
I don’t back down. I puff my chest and crane my neck. “You’re still the
same ugly, pitiful asshole from the bridge, Terrance. Just with nicer clothes.”
A phrase sticks out in my mind—Arthur’s words: “Open its dark vein and let
the black blood run.”
Terrance laughs in my face. Rolls his head back and really lets it out. “That’s
rich, coming from a whore who fancies herself a quee—”
 My hand lashes out before I realize what I’m doing—fast and precise. I
slice a horizontal line across his exposed neck with the dagger I snatched off
Gawain’s back-sheath when I bumped into him.
Terrance’s face screws up. His eyes contort. A second later, blood spills
down the thin red line, pouring over his neck. He reaches up with his hand to
see what’s going on, and is met with blood seeping through his fingers.
He collapses.
I spit on his convulsing, dying body.
“Guinevere!” Arthur lets out in a cry of disbelief.
“Fuck!” Gawain gasps, noticing the dagger I have in my hand, and where it
came from.
Terrance’s retinue shouts from horseback. Their steeds neigh and whinny.
They disparage us with shocked, angry words before spinning and taking off
down the road.
“I promised him safe passage!” Arthur continues.
The dagger drops from my hand with a wet thud. Terrance has stopped
convulsing. His eyes are lifeless, staring up at the midday sun.
I don’t feel relief. I don’t feel scared. I don’t feel anything. I turn to Arthur
and blink with a dazed expression. “I didn’t.”
“What?” Arthur snaps.
“Promise him safe passage. Besides, with Ector, Lot, Pellinore . . .” My
head slants. “I thought we were in the mood to kill rapists.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 51
Guinevere

I turn away from Terrance’s corpse and move through the crowd of parting
kings. Try to hold my head high, with my shoulders back, even though Arthur
is aghast, and the rest of my knights are baffled.
I make it four steps before my legs shake and my knees buckle. I let out a
little moan of despair before crunching onto the grass on my knees, putting
my hands flat in front of me. I hang my head and clench my eyes shut, trying
to fight through a wave of nausea and bile rising in my throat.
“Guin!” Arthur shouts.
When my eyes shut, I flash back to the look of utter disbelief on Terrance’s
face when I slit his throat.
Tears flood down my cheeks.
Armor clanks as Arthur is the first one to me, kneeling beside me. He grabs
me tight around my side and pulls me close against his large body. Then he
holds me there. Nothing else. His hand cradles the back of my head.
My breath is hard to squeeze past constricting lungs. The air comes to me
in tiny spurts, and it’s not enough. I’m hyperventilating. The panic attack is all-
consuming, and the irrational thought I’m going to die plays through my mind.
“It’s okay, little one,” Arthur promises in my ear. “Just breathe. It’s okay. Let
it out.”
I do. A sob wrenches from the back of my throat, and that seems to open
up my blocked airway. My cry is bloodcurdling in my ears, and I stuff my
mouth against Arthur’s chest so I can yell in a muffled voice.
When I finally feel strong enough to lift my head, the sobs come back to
me in hiccups. “W-What the fuck have I just done?” I implore him, staring up
at his concerned eyes.
His brow is furrowed. He’s looking down at me like he’s never seen me
before. Never witnessed this version of me.
 Neither have I. I didn’t even know I was capable of such a thing. I’ve killed
a man before, but it was to protect Lancelot from getting killed himself. To
save him.
This was . . . something completely different. This was cold blood and hot
rage. Bottled-up anguish and emotions I haven’t really dealt with, because my
entire life since stepping foot into this world has been a series of whirlwind
events. They’ve compiled and blurred together, forcing me to stuff down the
dark shit that has happened to me.
The attacks. The near sexual assaults at the hands of bandits, and goblins,
and even other knights. Terrance, Flip, Sir Agravain. Sir Meleagant, if he’d had the
chance. The wretchkin at the river with Lancelot, if they’d seen us. The goblins in my dream
as Queen Anna. The bandits who had Iseult captured as a slave. Dindrane and her father.
Mary and her king. King Lac and King Ector at the Meeting of Kings.
Everywhere I’ve turned, the glaring eyes of wicked men have found me.
Except these men weren’t the possessive, obsessive, overprotective kind of
men with redeeming qualities like my mates. These were true villains of this
world. A world where things like that happen every day, without repercussion.
Well, someone had to pay for it.
I tell myself I did what I did for all the others who haven’t been able to
stop their attackers. As revenge for the countless nameless women, girls, and
boys who have suffered at the hands of the evildoers in Logres.
It all came out in a single emotional attack of my own.
Vengeance . . . and then vindication.
While Arthur holds me tight, until I can compose myself, I worry about my
sanity. What has this medieval world done to me? To my psyche and soul? The Guin from
New York would have never thought of something so heinous and violent. Sure, I get road
rage and get mad at inconveniences like any other normal person, but I don’t act on those
impulses!
I imagine it’s because I’ve been desensitized to the violence. I’ve seen
Gawain and Lancelot and Arthur do the same exact thing, multiple times, and
the devil on my shoulder is saying, “If they can do it, why can’t I? What’s so different
between us?”
This feeling of self-sacrifice and agony makes us different. Like I’ve lost
part of myself—a fragment of my soul. I wasn’t born into this world and this
violent lifestyle. I was molded into it. Crafted by my knights, as much as they
tried to shield me from doing the dirty work myself.
 Have I become a monster like my vengeful protectors?
“I never wanted that for you,” Arthur says in my ear. “Never in my darkest
dreams, little one.”
I shake my head and sniffle, then wipe snot from my upper lip with my
forearm.
Arthur continues, a sad tint to his words. “I wish I had known what he did.
I would have never let him leave—”
“You can’t protect me from every black-hearted man we come across,
Arthur. Sometimes, I have to protect myself.”
“Yes. I can.” Arthur’s voice is an assured growl. He truly believes he can
protect me from the darkness of this land, which I have so casually embraced.
Even after all we’ve been through. How can he be so naïve? How can’t he see the
changes I’ve gone through over time? How they snowball and build and grow until I . . .
well, until I kill a man in cold blood standing right in front of me, and fill with satisfaction
as I watch him bleed out?
The other knights surround me. They’re kneeling, trying to comfort me and
make me feel normal. I think it’s going to be a long time before I feel anything like
normal after that.
I can tell by the looks on their faces they’re stunned at my swift, ruthless
action. Looking at the worried, saddened faces of my kings, I say, “I don’t
need your pity, guys.”
“But you do, fireheart,” Lancelot mutters. “This is as much my fault as
anyone else’s.”
My blood boils and my muscles contract. “If I’m going to be a queen,” I
spit, “I’ll have to learn to be merciless and cutthroat. Won’t I?”
They reel and share looks, as if they haven’t thought of that question
before. They’ve spent all their time corrupting and molding me to their liking
—using me in ways I love to be used—without thinking of the consequences.
They truly look baffled at how it could have gotten this far.
“You did what you needed to do for closure, little lark,” Gawain says. “I,
for one, am happy you did it.”
I can tell by the rasp to his voice that he isn’t. If he’s not disappointed in
me, then he’s disappointed in himself, like Lancelot. He’s simply placating me,
trying to make me feel less horrible about myself.
I appreciate it, but I also don’t want to be patronized.
 “You’re not going mad, snoop,” Percival assures me with an eager nod. His
beautiful face twists with scorn, cheeks tightening and cerulean eyes flaring.
“Whatever that fucker did, he deserved it. I agree with Gawain. I’m glad you
put him in his place.”
“You didn’t think. You acted.” Kay smiles. “I do it all the time. Hell, I do it
most the time.”
A snotty little smile comes to my face. The other guys chuckle at Kay’s
words of encouragement—if that’s what they can be considered.
“Acting with conviction, without hesitation, is an important trait, little
lamb,” he adds. “You will need to learn to wield it. When to embrace it, and
when to suppress it.”
Arthur scoffs. “Like you, you big oaf ?”
Kay frowns when the others snicker at his expense. Then he rakes a hand
through his red beard. “I know. I’m shit at it. Guin doesn’t have to be,
though.”
“You might feel weak and awful right now,” Lancelot says, “but in time, it
will make you feel powerful. Kay is right about one thing: Being decisive can
never be frowned upon. We just wish we could have done the deed for you.”
I slowly nod in agreement. I wish I would have just spoken out and said
what I needed to say. Accused Terrance of being the aider and abettor that he
is. Was.
Then what? Then Arthur or someone else would have killed him. I still would
have felt awful about it, most likely, except that feeling would have been
doubled with regret and shame at letting others act as my sword.
Lancelot once told me, “Use me as your blade.”
Maybe he’s right. In time, maybe I won’t have to rely on them to be my
sword and shield. Perhaps my blind opinion about what it takes to be a queen
isn’t too far off-base.
It’s clear the guys might have been blind to their effect on me, but have
thought about my rise to power. What it’ll take. I never expected such advice
and wisdom from them. Even though it’s no surprise they’re trying to make
me feel better, it’s their introspection I welcome.
“You’ve worried me before, Guin,” Arthur says. “You’re my feisty, snappish
little girl, but you’re still not of this world. I worried you were too fragile to
become Ever Queen. I was much more worried about you breaking mentally
than physically, love.”
 I swallow hard over a lump. “A-And now?”
He shakes his head. His eyes soften with an adoring expression. A small,
sad smile sweeps across his face. “Not anymore, my Ever Queen. Once we
save this kingdom, I know you’ll be ready. Iseult will be the first female knight
of Camelot. You will be the first queen we’ve had. The people will love you,
because you will be decisive but fair. Understanding but candid. Empathetic
and kind, without being gullible or weak. We will be there to protect you, but
you will also be able to protect yourself. You encapsulate all the qualities we
knights lack, Guin, and our kingdom will be better for it. We’ll be better with
you at the center of us all.”
His words make me suck in a sharp breath. Somehow, in some twisted way,
I do feel better about myself. I stand, using Arthur’s shoulder for support.
Though my legs wobble, I get the ground firmly under my feet. The tears dry
and I take in a deep, heady lungful of crisp air.
I’m alive. My attacker is not. I should be thankful, not pitying myself. In my
world, I would have gone to jail for the rest of my life for what I just did.
Killing a man in cold blood, without being able to prove what he did to me
first? Without any clear, justified act of self-defense? It’s a story as old as time:
Attacker goes free, then the person who ends up killing them gets jailed for
carrying out vigilante justice.
In that respect, I should thank my lucky stars it happened here and not in
my world. I’m never going to see a jail cell for what I’ve done.
This place is brutal. Things go unchecked. Things aren’t fair. I’m no
stranger to things not going my way.
At least now I’ve aligned myself a little closer to the world in which I’m
living. I won’t lose my mind over this. I’ll grow and learn from it.
This is fucking Logres, in the time of King Arthur and the Knights of the
Round Table.
I’ve long since agreed to take the good with the bad.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 52
Guinevere

My plan is a simple one. The difficulty will be getting my guys to go along with
it, without them knowing the entire truth of what I want to do. I need to keep
my motives a secret as long as I can, because I know it’s going to cause an
uproar and blow up in my face.
Honestly, I’m hoping Morgan le Fay does it for me by announcing
Mordred’s true parentage to the world, so he can solidify his claim to the
Camelot throne.
I’m skating on thin ice, rereading the letter Terrance handed me, which now
has blood on one corner. I grimace when I try to wipe away the bloodspots.
If I can get close to Mordred at this ball, dance, party thing, I truly believe I
can change his mind. Call me naïve, but I think I can break him out of
Morgan’s brainwashing spell. If only long enough to put a stop to this war and
the vendetta he has against King Arthur. Because I know where Mordred’s heart
really lies. He wants me more than he wants Arthur.
Another primary reason for keeping things close to my chest: Merlin told
me it would be disastrous to tell Arthur and Mordred about their kinship,
because it would fuck with the prophecy. Aren’t I trying to circumvent the prophecy,
though? Or at least mold it to our benefit?
I pace on the grass a few feet from my men, biting my lip anxiously. The
guys are no longer paying attention to me, caught up in their own arguments
which are completely unrelated to mine. It’s just as well.
The rest of the army must think we’re crazy, because we’re yelling and
pacing and there’s a dead body between us. People have started making camp,
noticing this might be a lengthy discussion. Plus, nighttime is fast approaching.
Arthur says to his knights, “We don’t want to kill innocent people.”
Kay scoffs. “That’s exactly what Mordred wants you to say, brother. Take it
from a degenerate gambler: He’s hedging his bet on you calling off the siege
because peasants will be inside the castle. Essentially, he’s holding them
hostage, hoping you’ll do the honorable thing.”
“Then we wait them out,” Percival says. When eyes look in his direction, his
shoulders rise to his ears. “The party can’t last forever. Eventually, the citizens
will need to get back to their farms, shops, and families.”
Hands go to hips. Arthur taps his chin, clearly wanting Percival to continue
that line of thinking. The blond king pulls his hair back away from his face.
“Once the castle empties out, we charge. Like we originally planned.”
Lancelot is the first to disagree. “The longer we stand outside Camelot with
our dicks in our hands, the greater chance Mordred’s allies have of
surrounding us. Remember, we’re not just facing Camelot’s army, we’re facing
Kernow, Lyonesse, Gorre, and whoever else they’ve wrangled up. The last
thing we can afford is to get flanked while we’re eagerly watching Mordred’s
little masquerade.”
Percy lets out a curse, knowing he’s right but hating it. Then he glances at
me, raising a brow. “Is it a masquerade?”
I shrug and lift the letter. “Doesn’t say.”
He grumbles and folds his arms, bowing his head. He looks so hot deep in
thought like that, and I honestly think a cute mask would be awesome on him.
Gawain, who has been quiet and contemplative, says, “I agree with Arthur.
We can’t kill the peasants of the very city we’re trying to liberate.”
Kay flares his nostrils, spinning to him. “You’ve always had a soft spot for
the commoners, little knight.”
Gawain doesn’t take the bait. His expression is unbothered. “It would only
play into Mordred’s hand of claiming we’re wicked invaders hellbent on
overthrowing the legitimate king. It paints Arthur in a worse light than he’s
already in. No offense.”
Arthur dips his chin and grunts.
I understand Gawain’s hesitance on attacking the city when the castle is
thronged with citizens. Gawain’s foster parents are in Camelot. The fisherfolk. Of
course he has a soft spot for commoners and less-affluent people. They raised him. He has a
deeper understanding of poverty and destitution than the others.
I’m actually surprised Kay is willing to charge headlong into this situation,
given that he had Mary growing up—a servant to his father—who he
cherished. Shouldn’t he be touched by the same affection for the commonfolk?
Then again, it’s Kay. He’s always willing to charge headlong into something.
 After a lengthy pause, Arthur says, “Before we move on, let’s get one thing
straight. We keep saying it’s in Mordred’s hands, his interest, his ploy. We’re
talking about the wrong person. Morgan le Fay is clearly the architect of this
scheme, so we need to discuss our strategy with her in mind.”
“Then we’re even more fucked,” Lancelot chirps, “because she’s smarter
than all of us and she can disappear into fucking shadows. In case you’ve
forgotten, she’s a damn sorceress.”
“Even so . . .” Arthur murmurs, trailing off.
Despite what our king says, I’m not so sure he’s right. Something in the
back of my mind nags at me, telling me this isn’t Morgan le Fay’s doing. She’s
brazen, as we saw in Leudonia with her body-snatching of Queen Anna. She’s
also cunning and sneaky.
This is bold. It feels different than Morgan’s other schemes, and Mordred
did send me the letter directly.
“I’m sorry if I sound silly,” I say, crossing the road to them, “but I think
you might be mistaken, Arthur.”
He raises a brow. “Never apologize for disagreeing with me, little one. We
value your opinion just as much as anyone’s. Speak. Please.”
“Isn’t there a chance it is Mordred’s idea? That maybe he’s trying to make a
name for himself ? What are the chances the citizens are just as displeased with
him as they were of you?”
Kay answers instead of our king. “Based on the sparse reports from my
Sauvage spies in Camelot, Mordred’s popularity is no better than King
Arthur’s. Once Domino became unmasked, he lost his allure and mystery.
Now, he’s just another man, and he’s done nothing to change Camelot’s
trajectory.”
I nod slowly. “Then what if he’s doing this to try and drum up support
from the townsfolk? To show them he’s different than any king before him?
Opening up the doors to Castle Camelot has to be pretty rare and special.”
“He’s not a politician,” Gawain chides, “and he doesn’t get elected. Why the
fuck would he care what the commoners think of him?”
“Because he’s insecure,” Percival mumbles. When Gawain furrows his brow,
Percy smiles sadly. “Take it from a man who understands.”
Arthur’s head sways left to right. “You’re not wrong, little one. Other than
daily arbitration meetings to appease commoner grievances, this has never
been done before. Even then, it wasn’t a free-for-all. It had rules.”
 “This will show the people the inner workings of the kingdom. Behind the
curtain.” I thread my fingers together in front of my belly, and purse my lips in
thought.
“It’s a risky proposition,” Arthur says. “It opens royalty to all sorts of
logistical problems, possible backlash. Even violent ones. It’s a huge endeavor
they’re undertaking.”
“So what?” Lancelot snaps. Our heads twist to the tree he’s sitting under.
He stands. “Who cares about any of this—whose idea it was, who benefits
from it, who is playing us? It all goes to the same place, and it changes
nothing. We need to decide if we’re attacking Camelot before the ball, after the
ball, or during it.”
I appreciate his practical insight, but it’s not so simple. I’m ready to flip this
whole thing upside down, and based on the tense body language of my
knights, it’s not going to go down well. I have to try, I tell myself.
The knights are talking of war and death. I’m thinking of peace and
reconciliation, and that is the thin ice I’ve been tiptoeing around in my head for
the past hour.
Finally, once they dig into conversation again, I tune them out and crane
my neck to the purpling sky. I blow a raspberry, pray to whatever spirits or
gods might be out there, and level my gaze at them.
“What if we went?”
The conversation stops like a record scratching.
Arthur blinks at me. “What was that? I don’t think I heard you corr—”
“What if we went to the ball?”
Everyone else’s voice rises in dissent, as suspected, except for Arthur’s. I
keep my eyes locked with his, challenging him with a tweaked brow.
He’s caught with his mouth still open. When he closes it, his face softens,
but it only makes me angry. It’s not the softness of an endearing expression.
It’s the softness of a pitying one. Like how an adult might look at a silly child
for saying something dumb.
“Guin . . .”
“I know, I know. It’s foolish and reckless. Ballsy, sure, and utterly
dangerous.”
“Yes. It’s all those things and more.” The soft slant of his brow hardens
into the wartime king, which is a bit scary to look at from his massive frame
and devilishly handsome face. “If you knew that, why did mention it?”
 My lips tug into a smirk. “You told me you value my opinion as much as
anyone else’s.”
“I do, but—”
“Just hear me out,” I interrupt again, and I can tell by the tick in his jaw it
might be the last time he allows me to do that before he bends me over his
knee. “I know it’s the most obvious ambush that was ever ambushed. I
understand that. Don’t you think Mordred does, too?”
Arthur’s brow furrows.
“He knows we’re not idiots.” I’m winging it. This wasn’t part of the plan,
yet the truth has to come out one way or another. At least most of the truth. Some
things can still wait.
I have everyone’s attention. They aren’t staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Instead, they look curious and engaged. Optimistically so. Their faces say,
“How the hell is she going to spin her way out of this one?”
I talk with my hands as much as my voice, wrists rolling and hands
gesturing. It keeps me from freaking out while I lay out my plan in true
ADHD, crisscrossing fashion.
“We can blend in,” I say. “If it’s a masquerade—”
“You said the letter doesn’t specify it is,” Arthur interjects. He jabs a thumb
over his shoulder. “And you think Kay’s red beard and Percival’s golden mane
could be kept secret behind a flimsy mask—”
“Okay, fine, we won’t blend in,” I blurt, and his lips firm into a line. Shit,
that’s strike three. “Maybe we won’t have to? Mordred had the letter hand-
delivered to me, personally. That man rode across half the country to find us.
What if the letter is sincere? What if Morgan doesn’t even know his plan—
doesn’t know the letter was sent to me?”
“That’s a lot of what-ifs,” Lancelot shoots. “I appreciate the fire in your
heart as much as anyone, Guin, but—”
“I’m not done.” I raise a finger to shush him. God, how does he look so fucking
good scowling at me like that? I’m really getting on everyone’s last nerve here, and I sort of
love it. “We won’t have to blend in. I’ll have you guys with me. For protection.
Isn’t there a chance, just this once, it isn’t a trap?”
Silence. They look at each other. Frown.
“No.” They say it in unison, and my shoulders sag.
Arthur steps toward me with his hands out, reconciling for peace. “Look,
Guin, we can’t risk that kind of danger to you. We can’t waltz into the belly of
the beast when we know they’re hungry for your blood. Your optimism is
admirable. There’s no way it works, though. Too many things can go wrong.”
When his hands fall on my shoulders, gripping softly, I stare up at his slate
eyes and murmur, “I just want to do this with as little bloodshed as possible.”
“Is that why you want to go? Why you’re bending over backwards to make
this work in your mind?” He looks over my shoulder, and I know he’s looking
at the blood-soaked earth where Terrance’s body has been cleared. “You
mention wanting to minimize bloodshed. Is this atonement for what you did
to that man?”
I shake my head. “It’s not that complicated, Arthur.”
“Then tell me.” His voice is soft, so low the others have to scoot closer to
hear him. He tilts my chin with a finger, and the admiration and adoration in
his features return. “Why is this important to you?”
A thrum of excitement mingles with my nerves. “Because I don’t think
Mordred wants to kill us.”
His head tilts. “You think he’s waving the white flag?”
I shake my head. “I think he wants to see me. It’s been months since the
battle in the plains—since he laid eyes on me. Call it my ego, my gut feeling. I
think Mordred wants to talk to me. I believe he’s still, well, obsessed with me.”
His soft features shape into a frown.
Shit. He’s not buying it.
“Obsessed with you like the rest of us,” he murmurs, almost to himself
more than me.
I nod and tuck my head into his chest. I’m tired of trying to reason with
him. I’ve said my piece. At the end of the day, even if I’m the Ever Queen,
King Arthur still leads us. Until we take back Camelot, my title is just an idea
—a fraction as weighty as his title and status.
Then he hums in my ear.
For some reason, it raises my anxiety. That . . . doesn’t sound like acceptance.
That sounds like an idea brewing.
When he speaks next, I realize I’ve misread the last few minutes of our
interaction: the frown, the murmur, speaking to himself rather than me.
“It would give me a good opportunity to get close enough to challenge him
to a duel.”
I lurch back from his chest. “What? No!”
 He’s smiling down at me, as if he can’t see the horrified expression on my
face. The way the blood drains from my cheeks. He thinks I’m acting like this
because I’m worried he’s going to get hurt in a duel.
And he’s fucking right. I’ve been trying to steer us away from a duel
because I’ve seen how those end, with Lancelot and Sir Galehaut as a prime
example. Also, only I know the prophecy here. If Arthur and Mordred face
off, that’s it. Game over. It simply can’t go any other way.
They both die, and I lose the man I love.
Arthur’s smile falters. “What’s wrong, little one?”
“You can’t duel Mordred!”
“Why not?”
“J-Just”—Fuck, should’ve kept my mouth shut—“because you can’t!”
His gaze turns suspicious, and I know I have to clam it shut. I’m so
tempted to tell him about his impending death. I should tell him, but I can’t
bring myself to do it.
The words simply won’t eke past my tight lips.
“I know you’re worried, Guin. Don’t be. Be happy with this. It’s the best of
both worlds: You get to speak with Mordred, I get to challenge him. With a
duel, the bloodshed will be minimized.”
I shake my head and suppress a groan. Fucking hell. I knew this was going to
backfire. The sad part, which makes my heart rip in two, is Arthur has that look
in his eyes that tells me he wants to duel his nephew. He’s excited for the
opportunity. He’s been waiting for this moment, and it fucking hurts my soul.
“Men?” Arthur asks behind him.
They shrug—more reticent than him, but they’re not going to go against
their king.
“Other than the whole killing-us-before-we-step-foot-into-the-castle part,”
Lancelot says, “I suppose we could make it work.”
The others agree. They’re sardonic, nihilistic, and don’t care about the
dangers as long as I’m not at the center of it.
Arthur pats my shoulder. “There. You get your wish, little one. We’re going
to the ball.”
I sigh and nod, defeated. What else can I do?
“What about the four thousand fucking men behind us?” Gawain asks.
“We bring the army with us,” Arthur declares. “If anything goes wrong,
we’ll be ready with four thousand swords.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 53
Guinevere

We make it through another week of travel. Then two. The conditions have
been brutal, yet I’m starting to get used to it. We travel for nearly eight hours a
day, at a snail’s pace because our long train of supplies and soldiers, who are
mostly on foot.
The sun, when it’s out, has beaten my skin from an alabaster, freckled hue
of crisp paper, to a cherry lobster tone, and finally to a nice sheen of light
bronze. I’m looking and feeling good.
I’m pretty bottom-heavy these days, too, with muscles forming over my legs
and rear. I don’t see my knights complaining. I keep catching their heated eyes
lingering on me, and it makes me feel nice and wanted. Hiking along the
sloping roads has made my thighs and calves out of this world because, more
often than not, I end up walking alongside the soldiers, or taking a horse.
Riding a saddle does wonders to your glutes.
I’m given a cart to travel, but often give my spot on the bench to a tired
foot soldier, or someone who gets sick and needs a day of rest while we still
move.
My kindness doesn’t go unnoticed.
King Arthur walks alongside me one day. The soldiers I’m with part ways
to give us privacy. I smile at them, waving bye to Jonathan, a younger man
whose father I’ve been giving my spot on the cart. Jon’s dad has leg problems
during certain hours of the day, usually right around noon.
I glance out my peripheral and see Arthur smirking.
“What?” I ask. “Are you about to tell me how I’m making these soldiers
weak and dependent on my help? How I’m too soft—”
“No, little one. Quite the opposite.”
My mouth closes. Heat comes to my cheeks. The pink hue is less noticeable
these days thanks to my tan. “Oh.”
 He gestures at the train of marching soldiers. I wish I had headphones and
music. This sort of sight deserves an epic soundtrack. Also, the sound of
boots constantly thudding while marching is irritating on its best day.
“This is how you build respect with your subjects,” Arthur says. “How you
build a rapport. They see you. They see a kind, understanding queen.”
I smile at him, then notice how his smirk falters, shifting upside down. It
makes my smile wane, too. “You’re about to give me a warning with that
statement. You could just leave it at that, you know. Thank you.”
“Don’t let the soldiers take your kindness for weakness.”
“There it is.”
“I’m not trying to nag, Guin.” He bumps me with his shoulder, and I nearly
go flying off to the side because of his size and the suddenness of it. He
laughs at my expense.
I scrunch my face in a little scowl. “Hey! What the hell!” My anger sounds
happy and jokey.
“Sorry.” He barely contains his laughter.
“Why’d you do that?”
“To see if those legs and hips are as sturdy as they’re looking these days.”
My cheeks flare again. It’s hard to argue with him when he follows his
bullying with a compliment. “And?” I ask.
He gives a tiny shrug. “Could still use some work on your balance.”
Frustration runs through me. “Maybe if I had some warning I’d—”
He breaks into a deep laugh while I’m in the middle of my complaint, and
it draws eyes from around us. It makes soldiers smile to see him having fun
and teasing me.
“Fuck off,” I snort, levity dancing in my eyes, around my lips. His laughter
stops and two lines form between his brow. Oops, did I make daddy mad? I think
gleefully. “Sorry,” I say, and then sweep into an over-the-top bow. “Please,
kindly fuck off, my liege.”
He shakes his head, smiling, and reaches out to shove me to the side again.
I dip away, dodging him like a spritely monkey, grabbing his bigger hand with
mine. When our fingers lace together, we’re left holding hands for a while.
We march shoulder to shoulder as if we’re taking a stroll through a park
and not toward our likely deaths. How long will this niceness last? I wonder.
Because it feels pretty damn good, and I never want to let it go.
 † † †

By the end of the second week, we’re getting close to our destination. Our
plan isn’t to show ourselves to Camelot right off the bat. We want to let our
scouts do their work and see what awaits us.
Ever since we decided we’re going to attend the ball, we also decided not to
split the core group up. Thank God for that, because if this is the last time I
get any intimate time with my knights before all hell breaks loose, I want it to
last as long as possible.
Splitting up the band is not an option. King Bagdemagus is put in charge of
the entire west wing of our arrowhead formation, while Iseult and Tristan are
given command of the eastern company. The rest of us take the central
vanguard regiment.
We have Forest Sauvage surrounded. We’ve passed Castle Sauvage, a
landmark for our march, and I’m officially further south than I’ve been in
months. It gives me a bit of anxiety, remembering everything that happened to
me around this area during my travels with Lancelot.
Thankfully, things are much more manageable now. Mostly because I have
my guys. Back then, we were constantly moving, not knowing where we were
headed, without any idea where Arthur was. It was chaos. When I think back
on it, I wonder how we managed to make it out of that initial escape from
Camelot alive.
Just barely. That’s how we made it out. Just barely.
We make camp in the forest to hide our numbers. I’m convinced there’s no
way Mordred and Morgan don’t know where we are. It’s just not possible. It
would be like someone not noticing their acid reflux: Even if you can’t see it,
you know you have it. You can feel it.
Around the campfire, my knights agree. We’re sitting, eating our meager
rations, while soldiers do the same in their tents and around fires. The setup
and takedown for our nightly camps is a massive operation that takes hours.
Kay says, “My scouts report Camelot is starting to mobilize. Nothing big,
yet. Troops arriving from the south.”
Arthur grunts, breaking off a piece of bread and handing me a chunk. “To
be expected.”
“What do you take our chances for getting the jump on them?” Percival
asks.
 Arthur chews and speaks around the mouthful. “We’re less than a week
from Camelot. A day less from our destination on the Sarum Plains. It’s
possible but unlikely. Once there, we’ll need to form up and prepare. Set up
our war tents, build the few siege machines we brought, get the soldiers into
formation.”
“I know how fighting a war works, my king. I’ve been there.”
Arthur glares at Percy. “You asked.”
They’re tense. For good reason. The time for joking around is over. We’re
in enemy territory, with the bad guys essentially surrounding us. Only a
portion of Sorestan, nearby to the west, came to our side, while the rest are
under Queen Agnes’ leadership. And she’s Morgan’s bestie. Then there’s
Camelot itself, south, and the part of Gorre on Morgan’s team, north.
But I’m not thinking about any of that. Over the past two weeks, I’ve been
quietly contemplating the same thought, trying to make sense of it: What is
Morgan le Fay’s motive in doing all this?
We keep talking about Mordred stealing Arthur’s crown and usurping the
king; Mordred planning the ball; Mordred doing this and that. But Morgan was
the one who came to Leudonia. She’s the one who killed King Lot, ostensibly
breaking up the alliance between him and King Pellinore, which very much
seemed against her best interests.
I keep thinking how, when I analyze it, her goal of pitting Arthur against
Mordred doesn’t really make sense. With both of them dead, the curse she
enacted will end, right? I guess with them dead, she doesn’t really need a curse on
Camelot anymore.
I’m coming to a realization. A theory. Deeper understanding. Morgan le Fay
is so chaotic and brutal, she doesn’t care what expense it takes to succeed in
her ambitions. She’s willing to sacrifice her freaking son—and she’s the only
other person besides me and Merlin who knows Mordred is her son—in order
to . . . do what?
In order to steal the throne of Camelot for herself.
The idea danced around the edges of my mind in the past. Now, sitting at
the campfire, it punches me in the gut.
We’ve always known Mordred is her tool. And she hates Arthur. So, she wants them to
duke it out in the bloodiest way possible, in order to swoop in and clean up the scraps. To
have her goblins take out every surviving person, and then rule Logres by herself.
 She has the Holy Grail already, even if she can’t use it without me. With Mordred
dead, she can take the Pendragon Circlet off his head. With Arthur gone, she can steal
Excalibur.
This bitch can unite the Relics Three on her own.
Then, when I have no protection, she can force me to help her wield the Holy Grail to do
whatever diabolical shit she wants.
I’m almost dead-certain that’s exactly what she wants to do. It makes so
much sense. “Arthur,” I chirp, stealing his attention from the other knights,
stopping him mid-conversation. “Morgan le Fay is your older sister, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
I shrug absentmindedly, as if I haven’t been thinking of this day and night
for the past two weeks. “Shouldn’t she have been the next in line to the throne
of Camelot, then? I mean after Uther.”
His lips fold into a line. “Careful, little one.”
“What? Why does that piss you—”
“My father decided long ago to pass the Pendragon Circlet to me—the son
who accompanied him on more battles than any person alive. She understood
that.”
“And hates you for it.”
“Well, yes. Probably.”
I nod and let out a little hum, then return to my bread, tearing off tiny
chunks.
“You don’t approve,” he says flatly.
“I’m an outsider, Arthur. It’s not that I don’t approve. I don’t understand. It
doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“Fair?” Arthur asks, taken aback. “Lass, my sister is an elder mage of great
chaotic power and shadow magic, a disgraced disciple of the Old One, and
lives in a faraway castle where she’s transformed countless innocent fairies into
twisted, evil beings. Would you want a person like that leading your kingdom
after your death?”
Okay, he paints a very understandable picture, and Morgan definitely isn’t
doing herself any favors with her whole Wicked Witch of the West routine.
What I don’t say is how maybe Morgan wouldn’t have done all that evil shit
if Uther had promised her the Pendragon Circlet. If she wasn’t passed over
for Arthur, maybe things would have never gotten this far.
 I can understand Arthur’s hesitance about wanting to talk about this. I don’t
want to push him. I’m obviously still on his side. I’m just saying, when I really
look at it, I can see her point in waging war against the unfairness of a
misogynistic system that pushes her out of contention for the crown, which is
honestly rightfully hers.
I’d never get caught dead saying that out loud.
By and large, it’s no different than my world, really. We’ve made leaps and
bounds for equality, but the systemic problems of society are rooted in
cultures like this one, dating back hundreds of years. You can’t change that
sort of imbalance over night.
In the land of Logres, men are kings, women are mating tools. That’s the
way it is. No matter how much I press the issue, I can’t change it. At least not
until I’m Ever Queen . . .
I think I’ve found Morgan le Fay’s motive—or at least one of them—and
it’s given me a new understanding about that evil bitch.
Now I have to do my part to make sure she doesn’t succeed in taking over
Logres and killing everyone I love.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 54
Guinevere

My eyes shoot open when I hear voices outside my tent. I palm the dagger
under the heap of cloth I’m using as a pillow, and prop myself up on my
elbows, squinting.
It’s morning. I see the silhouette of a telltale giant frame through the tarp
of my tent, speaking with another huge man. My knights triangulated their
tents to surround mine, so I’m not surprised. Just a little jarred to be woken
from a dead sleep by anxious voices.
Kay says, “We have visitors.”
“Fuck. Already?” Arthur grunts.
“From the northeast, brother.”
I can see Arthur’s silhouette reel, head blowing back. “Northeast?”
“They fly the banner of Cameliard.”
A moment of silence.
Then, Arthur barks a laugh. That does surprise me.
I crawl out of my tent, poking my head out. “Morning, guys? What’s going
on?”
Arthur peers down at me. “Nothing to concern yourself with, little one. Go
back to bed. You have another hour yet, and we have a long day of travel
ahead.”
I stand to my full height, crossing my arms under my chest. “Well now I
don’t wanna.”
He smirks, eyes drinking me up in my morning, wild-haired glory. “Brat.”
He’s already dressed for battle, and looks striking in his plates of armor. So
does Kay. Hell, these guys have probably been sleeping with their armor on. I
bet they stink. We’ve only been able to bathe every fourth day, whenever we
can find a shallow-enough river. And once four thousand bodies sully a river
with their filth, I daresay it’s never quite as pristine again.
 “Come on,” he tells me, taking my hand. “We’ll get you food on the way.”
Over his shoulder, while he drags me along, he asks Kay, “How far out are
they?”
“Five minutes?”
Arthur scoffs. “Lot of good your scouts did. If they were here for a fight,
we’d be fucked.”
“I’ll reprimand the ones in charge of the northeastern corridor. Never
thought we’d have anyone coming from above us, brother. Most my men are
situated south.”
“Right. Well, let’s go greet our guests.”
I scan the camp as we walk through it, meandering around ashen campfires
and sleepy soldiers keeping watch. Others are waking out of their tents, and
there’s a general rustling, low murmur as we cross the first clearing.
The army looks tired. Granted, it’s the beginning of the day. Still, I wonder
how sustainable this is. I hope we can reach our destination early, so we can
rest for a couple days before any fighting begins. Obviously I’d like there to be
zero fighting, but that seems like a fairytale at this point.
We come to a denser area of trees. “What’s Cameliard?”
“An eastern kingdom, between Camelot and Listenoise up north.”
“Oh. I should have been able to guess. The name sounds similar to
Camelot.”
“I suppose you could call it our sister kingdom,” Arthur says. His hand
folds tight around mine, as if he’s worried if he lets me go, I’ll vanish into thin
air.
His protectiveness is overbearing at times, but not unappreciated.
Especially this early in the morning, with him looking so sharp. It kind of
makes me want to climb him like a tree. Long day of travel ahead, like he said.
Might as well get it out before the sun is blaring overhead.
When I’m quiet for a moment, getting hornier with every step, Arthur
seems to notice. He glances at me, then double takes. “Hm.”
“What?”
“You look like you want to fuck, little girl.”
I blink. Twice. My face flushes. “Is it that obvious?”
He takes in a big breath of air. “I can smell it on you.”
“That’s . . . ew? But also . . . hot? What does it, uh, smell like?”
“Sex.”
 I roll my eyes. “How eloquent. Guess I ran into that one.”
His beautiful lips curl. “Some things are better left in my mind. If we’re
going to get any marching done today, I can’t get caught slowing us down by
railing you against a tree for the next three hours.”
My eyes bulge. “Three hours?!” God fucking help me.
His smile turns sinister. He also seems to be walking with a bit of an
awkward limp now, and those leather pants don’t do much to hide the fat
outline snaking down his thigh. God fucking help me twice.
We come to the edge of the tree line. I’m unfortunately forced to push
aside my naughty thoughts, because a huge company of riders is approaching
fast. The banner at the front is black, with a goofy-looking golden lion splayed
on the front, its tongue out.
“You said Cameliard is a sister kingdom? Does that mean it’s ruled by a
queen?” My voice is hopeful.
Arthur shoots it down fast. “No. It’s ruled by one of the old guard. One of
my father’s greatest allies.” He pulls his hand away from me—which stabs me
with a pang of loss—and folds his arms over his chest.
I frown. “Lot was one of Uther’s greatest allies, too.”
“King Leodegrance is different. He gifted Uther the Round Table, with
which my father created our brotherhood.”
My eyebrows lift as we watch the riders. They’re growing bigger with every
passing second. I can hear the heavy hooves of their horses pounding on the
plains. “Are you saying that without King Leodegrance, there would be no
Knights of the Round Table?”
He sniffs loudly. “No. We would have just found a different table. Probably
one that wasn’t round.”
When I chuckle, he glances over at me with a smile. His silver-gray eyes
glitter with as much desire as mine. This is going to be a tough day to get
through without getting railed against a tree by my king for three hours.
When the horses get to us, riders dismount. Two men approach—one
hoisting the huge banner, which flaps in the morning breeze, and a man beside
him with a balding pate, a full face, and high cheekbones. Despite his aging
appearance, he seems youthful in the way he smiles at Arthur as he walks
toward us. He’s armored, and atop his head is a thin band of silver. Beneath
the minimalist crown, shocks of red hair swoop up on the sides, thinning on
top. The little bit of hair he has draws my interest first, because it’s nearly the
same color of fiery-orange as mine, rather than the darker red hue of Kay’s.
I hear rustling and snapping twigs behind us. It’s Lancelot and Kay, keeping
their distance. I wonder where Gawain and Percival are, but then erase that
thought because those two horny motherfuckers are definitely taking
advantage of the last hour before we travel.
The jealousy strikes deep.
The king’s smile is wide and honest. Laugh lines wrinkle his cheeks and lips.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles, and it makes me smile, too.
The men study each other. Arthur is a head taller than him, and this guy is a
bit doughy, perhaps from lack of battle and training. Honestly, he appears to
be the happiest king I’ve seen here. Maybe northeast of Camelot is not such a bad
place, if this is the kind of well-eating, well-meaning life this man is able to live outside the
madness surrounding his kingdom.
Arthur breaks into a grin. “King Leodegrance,” he announces, spreading
his arms wide. “A pleasure, old man.”
The man matches Arthur’s grin, and they go in for a hug. Their armor
clanks and they pat each others backs.
Cute, I think. It’s a brotherly sort of bond, or maybe a father-son type of
bond I rarely see from Arthur.
“King Arthur the Terrible,” Leodegrance says. His voice is deep and rich.
Sort of like Arthur’s, actually.
The Terrible? I think, eyes flaring wide.
“Yes, let them keep thinking that,” Arthur says, pulling the man to arm’s
length. “It will serve us well in battle.”
“Little do they know how much of a pushover you are,” Leodegrance jabs,
and then slaps Arthur in the arm.
I glance over at the banner-wielder, who is a young man in battle regalia,
with stoic posture. Much unlike the affable king in front of us. He meets my
gaze, and I sense the awkwardness shifting between us. It makes me wonder,
Should this be a private meeting?
“What brings you this far south, Leo?” Arthur asks.
Leodegrance lets out a scoff and waves him off. “This far? I’m not that old,
boy.”
Arthur’s grin remains. I mean, his question is valid.
 Leo lets out a deep breath of air. “You aren’t going to feed me before you
force my mouth open, tongue to flap?”
Arthur chuckles. “The only person I feed before I fuck is—”
“Hi!” I interject, stepping forward before Arthur can embarrass the hell out
of me. I put my hand out for King Leodegrance to shake. “I’m Guinevere.”
His eyes meet mine, and flash wider for a fraction of a second. In that
moment, a trill of familiarity shoots through me, pummeling me so hard in the
chest I nearly gasp.
Those eyes. Light green, like mine. I guess it’s not a coincidence. He’s a ginger,
so the green eyes are pretty common. Still, they’re just so strikingly similar—
“My, but what a rare beauty you are, eh?” the king says. He takes my hand
gingerly, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles like I’m a queen. “That
hair.”
“Careful, Leo. She’s taken.” Arthur’s voice is the low threat it always is
when he talks like this, but it’s lacking some of the bite behind it.
“Of course she is.” He chuckles and releases my hand after a long,
lingering moment of staring into my eyes. “Apologies, my lady. Your face just
seems so . . . familiar? I’m not sure. Can’t put my finger on it. Can’t recall
where I’d know you from.”
For some reason, my palms are sweating. “Oh, it’s fine, King Leodegrance.
I get that all the time.”
He glances over at Arthur, unsure how to respond. When he sees me
smirking, he laughs. “Ha! She’s a fine lass, Arthur. What did you say her name
was?”
“I didn’t,” Arthur grunts. “She did. And it’s Lady Guinevere.”
Leodegrance nods. “Hm. Everyone’s heard about the one who travels with
Arthur the Terrible and his wicked knights. This is the Seductress?” He shrugs
and pouts. “I suppose I see it.”
Wow. I have a reputation? And I’m . . . the Seductress? I guess it makes sense seeing as
that I’m fucking five Knights of the Round Table. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Does
that mean I’m supposed to be the counter to Mordred’s Morgan le Fay? Because that I
definitely don’t like.
“Don’t treat her badly,” Leodegrance says.
“Only when she wants it, Leo.”
Okay, Arthur is way too comfortable talking about me with this guy. Like, what the
hell?
 King Leo isn’t wrong. I can’t shake the nagging feeling of recognition when
I study this man’s face. It’s almost like, with the bone structures of our faces,
our high cheekbones, our similar eyes and hair, the way his chin ends on a
point like mine does, I could be his . . .
Oh, holy fuck. The thought slams into my mind like lightning striking a tree.
Could this man be the father of my ancestors? The father of the original Guinevere? It’s
such a heady notion, my body wobbles with vertigo.
When I stumble back, Lancelot is there to right me. His hands circle my
waist, strong and sturdy. “You all right, fireheart?” His voice is a caress in my
ear.
I nod, swallowing down a dry throat. Arthur and Kay and Leo are looking
at me. It’s embarrassing. “S-Sorry,” I stammer. “I think you were right, my
king. I need some food. If you’ll excuse me?”
Arthur’s brow knits with concern. “Of course. I know where to find you,
little one.”
As Lancelot leads me away, Kay stays with Arthur to provide backup, even
though it looks like Arthur and King Leodegrance are getting along famously.
Their voices fade, but I hear Leodegrance say, “I’m here to support your
war to retake Camelot, boy. What do you think I came all this way down for?”
“I was hoping you’d show . . . how many . . .”
“. . . five hundred . . . strong . . .”
Their voices fade completely as we enter the woods. After stumbling the
first couple steps, with Lancelot bracing my shoulders, I blink away the double
vision.
“What’s wrong, lass?” Lancelot asks.
“Nothing,” I lie. “I don’t think.”
I can’t tell him. It hurts so bad that I can’t tell him, because I want nothing
more than to blurt the question out to King Leodegrance: “Did you ever have
a daughter? Did she look like me? Did you call her Guinevere?”
But he wouldn’t know, would he? That’s the viciousness of the cycle. This
poor man doesn’t even know if he might have been a father. If it was anyone
in my bloodline—anyone named Guinevere—the time loop of the cycle has
completely erased all notions of me.
What does that mean for the lives of my predecessors? For their names to
be forgotten to history? Will ending the cycle suddenly bombard the entire
world with memories of her? Of them—all the Guineveres who have come
through Logres? Or will I be the only one remembered? The only one who
stayed?
At first glance, Leodegrance looks like he’s lived a happy and carefree life,
which makes me wonder what my life might have been like under his care. It
makes my body tingle with excitement, wondering if I’ve just found a clue
about my heritage and background. I have to tell Merlin about this, next time I see
him. Ask him what my mind is telling me is true.
I’ve never thought of it before now, but I don’t even know how Arthur and
Guinevere met. It just makes so much sense, with their kingdoms being
neighbors. Their relationship evolving over the shared friendship between
Uther and Leodegrance. Leodegrance gifting Uther the Round Table, which
became the physical representation and cornerstone to the brotherhood of
Camelot’s knights.
Arthur, son of King Uther.
Guinevere, daughter of King Leodegrance.
It makes sense in my mind. And if that is the original Guinevere’s father,
dating back hundreds of years and many, many generations . . . I like to think
she lived a pretty good life. The daughter of a king, then the husband of a
prince. Never wanting for anything.
If that’s the case, what the hell was she running from? Why did she take the Holy Grail
and leave this world? The only thing I can imagine is the same thing that’s
haunted my bloodline: She was running from the death of her love, King
Arthur. Running to make sure it never happens. Abandoning Arthur so he
might live. The same brutal, heart-wrenching decision I’m going to have to make.
As Lancelot brings me to a campfire, panic starts to settle deep in my belly.
Tears suddenly burn my eyes, but I blink them away before Lance can notice.
“Here, eat this,” he says, handing me an amorphous blob of food. “The
color has drained from your cheeks.”
Yes, Sir Lancelot, that’s because I’m again reminded of this impossible choice I have to
make.
While I nibble on the stale piece of something, my head shakes. Slowly at
first, then more adamantly.
I make my choice here and now, standing over this shallow pit of a fire,
surrounded by Lancelot and a bunch of other sleepy soldiers.
I won’t abandon Arthur, or any of my knights. Ever.
I can’t let them die. Which means I have only one choice.
 I need to make sure the prophecy doesn’t happen how Merlin says it must. I have to
make sure I change it.

OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 55
Guinevere

It takes a few more days to get to the edge of the Sarum Plains, but we make
it. Finally. The relief in the eyes of the soldiers is palpable when we start
setting up camp that night. It took us three weeks to get here.
Now, I guess we wait for war. Either we bring it to Mordred or he brings it
to us. The soldiers have no time to get too comfortable.
Around the campfire that night, the circle is filled by more than just my
knights—King Bagdemagus, King Leodegrance, Iseult, and Tristan are also in
attendance for the meeting of commanders.
King Leodegrance starts. He slurps from a bowl of beans. His face appears
from behind the rim. “Mordred will know you’re here, Arthur. Why’d you
choose here to camp?” He looks out at the wide expanse of plains and hills.
“To intimidate him?”
Arthur shakes his head. “We needed a recognizable location for our
regiments to meet. Plus”—he points off into the distance—“there’s good high
ground over there. This is as good a place as any to prepare for battle.”
“Could have hidden in the trees not too far behind us,” Leodegrance
murmurs, finishing off his beans.
Arthur shrugs. “They’d still know we’re here, Leo. We have spies in
Camelot. You don’t think Mordred has scouts out looking for us?”
Kay says, “My scouts would have seen theirs.”
“Not necessarily, brother.”
I say, “We’re planning on attending a ball at the castle, where everyone in
the city is invited.” The commanders look at me like I’m crazy. Did no one
inform them about our intent? Oops. “That’s the main reason we camped close to
the city, right?” I face Arthur and my knights. “So we can have backup in case
anything goes wrong inside?”
 “You can’t be serious.” Bagdemagus regards Arthur while answering me,
scratching his forehead with a wince.
“She is,” Arthur answers. “I plan to challenge Mordred to a duel, once I get
close to him.”
Leodegrance is blustery. He reminds me of Kay when he throws his arms
up. “He’ll strike you down before you can get within a stone’s throw of him!”
Bagdemagus piles on. “And if he refuses your duel?”
Arthur stares deep into the fire. “That’s what we have the army for. If he
decides he wants to waste thousands of lives in place of his own, he will have
to live with the decision. If that’s the case, he’s more of a coward than I
thought. All I can do is pose the challenge.”
Tristan, leaning against Iseult with his head on her shoulder, says, in true
romantic fashion, “I think it’s brave, but also foolhardy.”
“No one asked what you think, Sir Tristan,” Arthur snaps. He flicks a piece
of grass into the fire, then stands. “This was Lady Guinevere’s idea, and I back
it. She is right: We at least have to try to prevent massive bloodshed. Otherwise
our consciences will always haunt us.”
“Not mine . . .” Gawain mumbles, trailing off.
“Yes it will,” Arthur chides. His nose wrinkles. “You don’t want to kill
peasants anymore than I do, Sir Gawain.”
Gawain frowns without an answer. Even if he’s heartless and cutthroat, he
has a soft spot for the commoners. Arthur has him dead to rights, without
even knowing why Gawain is that way.
His foster parents are in there. Will we be able to rescue them from the battle before it
begins?
“This is not for discussion,” Arthur announces. His voice is a bellow—
clearly angry his allies would question him. “The only thing we need to
consider is how we’re getting into my city.”
My city. I like that. Keep that same energy, my king.
Kay says, “My spies are due to report in the next two hours.”
“Don’t bother,” says a voice behind me and Arthur.
I whip my head around, inadvertently cracking my neck, and Arthur scoffs.
He doesn’t even need to turn around—the voice is soft, high-pitched, and
boyish.
“It’s about time you showed up,” Merlin says, joining us at the fire.
 While the others mutter to themselves, shaking their heads, I gawk. “How
did you know we’d be here?”
A smile splits his rosy cheeks. He taps his temple. “It’s all up here, my fiery
maiden.”
“That . . . doesn’t answer my question at all.”
Percival chuckles. “You’re looking younger every day, Old One.”
If it’s supposed to be a jab, Merlin takes it in stride. He annoyingly squeezes
between me and Arthur and sits, resting his walking staff over his knees. “So
are you, Sir Percival. Prettier, too.”
Percy flushes, and a few of the others chuckle.
Arthur asks, “What are you doing here, Keeper?” His voice is still molten
with fire. He’s in no mood.
Bet he’s in the mood to rid himself of some of this frustration, though . . . perhaps in
his tent . . . with me . . .
“I’m here to tell you you’re almost late, but you’ve made it just in time.
Mordred’s grand ball is tomorrow evening.”
My eyes widen. “Fuck. That’s soon.”
Nods and more grumbles across the fire. Half the people here don’t even
believe in the idea. I guess that’s my bad. I think it’s worth trying something
different for a change rather than constant war.
“It is, Lady Guinevere. Which means we have to get you prepared.”
“Prepared?” Kay asks.
I furrow my brow, shaking my head. I know it’s a stupid question, yet I ask
it anyway because I’m confused. “Wait, hold on. Rewind. How do you know
about the ball, Merlin? I understand you being able to follow us or whatever—
we’re a big mass of people. But this?”
His eerie eyes fall on me. With his young features, it makes me want to look
away and squirm. It feels creepy even staring into this ancient boy’s face.
“I’ve done some snooping of my own, in preparation for your arrival.”
“Snooping in what capacity?”
He gesticulates while he speaks. “To find you desirable entrances. Count
enemy soldiers. Get the general feel for the city before your arrival. Places to
rendezvous with your allies. That sort of thing.”
“The rebels?” Lancelot blurts. “You’ve heard from them?”
Merlin nods. “It’s my understanding your friends would like to meet.
Tonight.”
 Arthur says, “You’re talking about Baucillas, Lady Freya, and Sir Lamorak?”
Merlin winces. He leans back with a sigh, and his face suddenly looks much
too old and weathered to belong to such a young body. “The latter two, yes.
Sadly, your family surgeon did not make it, King Arthur. I am very sorry.”
Arthur’s shoulders sag. “Baucillas?”
My knights bow their heads and curse. I stand to be at my king’s side. I
clench his hand in mine, pulling him close. I didn’t know Baucillas well, but I
know how much he meant to Arthur and King Uther before him.
“Oh, Arthur,” I eke out in a low voice weighed down by sympathy.
He bares his teeth, staring down instead of at me. The licks of fire reflect
in his orbs. “He should have come with us. Damn fool. I told him if he stayed
in Camelot he’d—”
“He was a valuable architect in making your rebellion possible,” Merlin
interjects. “The old man made his decision. As must you.”
“What happened to him?” Arthur demands.
My heart rips in two. “What? Arthur, no—”
Merlin shakes his head. “It’s best if you don’t—”
“What. Happened. To. Him.” Arthur’s blazing eyes never leave Merlin’s.
He’s close to exploding with rage. I’ve seen it before—rarely—and it’s there
right now.
The wizard stands, so he’s not being talked down to like a child. In his
current state, he hardly comes up to Arthur’s chest. “It’s my belief Mordred or
Morgan executed him. Then his dismembered corpse was left outside the
castle gates on pikes, as a warning to other rebels.”
Arthur lets out a strangled sound of dismay as he spins away from Merlin,
unable to keep his unwavering gaze any longer. “Those motherfuckers.”
Those motherfuckers, I echo in my head.
“Avalon save me, how could they?” Lancelot growls. “He was just an old
man.”
“He was the de facto leader of your revolution, boy.” Merlin isn’t afraid to
challenge anyone here. Even if he looks like a prepubescent punk, he’s still the
strongest magic user in the land. It’s important for my knights to realize that.
They shouldn’t take their anger out on Merlin—he’s just the messenger.
I feel their righteous indignation. It cuts me deep, burning a hole into my
heart, reminding me of Sir Dagonet’s end. “The best of us,” as we called Dag.
 Baucillas was loyal and wise, from what I remember of him. He was
important to this crew. Arthur might be right: If we’d been able to talk him
into joining us on our northern adventure, he might still be alive today. Then
again, he was old. He easily could have died on the trail, like he suspected he
would if he tagged along.
“He did what he told us he would do,” I say through gritted teeth. When
Arthur glances over at me, sadness ripping into his eyes, I continue. “Let us
honor him for his sacrifice, King Arthur.”
Now, more than ever, I want to take these bastards down. Especially
Morgan, because there’s no doubt in my mind she had something to do with
this. She’s a murderous, conniving, evil cunt.
“Merlin, you said you can get us into the city tonight? To meet with the
others?”
He nods to me.
“Then let’s go. If Mordred’s ball is tomorrow, there’s no time to waste.”

† † †

Seeing Camelot’s crumbling walls and infrastructure in the distance, with the
moon highlighting its past glory, fills me with a deluge of vying emotions. I
can tell by Arthur’s face next to me he’s going through the same cycle in his
head.
On one hand, it’s where I met King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
Table. Camelot opened up my life to unheard-of possibilities—magical,
visceral, amazing possibilities.
It’s also the resting place of Arthur’s kingdom, his crown, and his father.
It’s ground zero for Mordred’s betrayal. The kingdom where I was nearly
assaulted by bandits, and where I first saw what a sinful, cursed realm it really
was, underneath the glamour of its mythical sheen.
As Arthur and I walk through the eastern gate, flanked by a mass of
merchants and peasants on either side of us, I realize I don’t really care about
this place anymore. Not after I’ve been through nearly all of Logres and seen
the beauty this magical realm has to offer outside the Rot.
It’s a sobering thought. I’m only doing this to appease Arthur. Yes, it would
be cool to be “Ever Queen,” whatever that means, but this is Arthur’s goal, to
reclaim his position as king. It’s his goal to rejuvenate his kingdom to its past
magnificence. I’m simply his biggest supporter.
I will do this for him, because it means keeping us together. It means
keeping the Knights of the Round Table unified, and never letting them go.
That is all I care about.
True to Merlin’s word, it’s easy to get in through the eastern gate. The six of
us come in with nearly thirty other people—a constant stream of residents
and outsiders flooding the city streets. We’re scattered among them, to make
our entrance less obvious. A big guy like Kay stands next to other big men to
be less conspicuous, while someone like Percy has a hood over his head.
The wave of humanity entering Camelot at every entrance is too much. It’s
overwhelming the infrastructure of the city, and the guards.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I hear a guard spit out from atop a lifted platform as we pass
under the ramparts. “How the hell are we supposed to stop spies from
entering the city when this bullshit is happening? We can’t stop anyone!”
Another guard: “Think that’s the point. King doesn’t want to stop anyone
from entering.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s gonna regret this. Mark my word.”
Then we’re inside, spilling out onto the streets.
It’s madness in here. Even a gate district like this one is filled to the brim
with people, even this late at night. It’s like the Grail District all over again,
minus the public sex. The public drunkenness is still prevalent.
“Holy fuck,” I say, gawking at a fight breaking out twenty feet in front of
us. “It’s the Wild West in here.”
“What?” Arthur asks, pulling the lip of his hood tighter around his head.
His eyes dart in every direction.
“It’s lawless.”
A man bumps into me, hand falling on my arm, and Arthur growls and
moves forward.
Lancelot is there first, pushing the man away, and the guy goes willingly
down the street, raising his hands to show us he means no harm. “Fucking
idiot,” Lancelot snaps.
My guys are taut like a rubber band ready to snap. We’re in the lion’s den,
surrounded by enemies, trying to be incognito. In hindsight, now that I’m here
. . . it’s a pretty stupid plan.
Gawain says, “Now what? Merlin didn’t tell us where to—”
 “Um, guys?” I chirp, lifting my arm. There’s a piece of parchment stuck to
the back of my hand, as if glued there. “I think that guy who ran into me put
this on me.” I peel the strip of paper off my hand. “It just says, You’re going to
need a new dress. Dot dot dot.”
“Dot dot what?” Kay asks.
“No, I’m just—I’m sounding it out. You’re going to need a new dress. With three
periods at the end. Dot dot dot.” When Kay’s face remains blank, I sigh and
shake my head. “Never mind. What do we make of this?”
“I know,” Gawain says.
Of course he does. He knows this city better than anyone because he’s
stashed his parents in the poor district.
Half an hour later, after pushing our way through the horde of partygoers
and pre-gamers just to make it a few freaking blocks, we step into a tailor’s
shop.
Usually, I imagine a tailor’s shop would be closed this late at night. Tonight’s
not just any night, though.
Gawain smiles as we enter, bobbing his eyebrows.
A large curvy woman stands in the corner of the shop, back facing us,
highlighted by the moon slicing through an aperture. She’s alone, running her
hands along the fabric of a hanging dress. When she hears our footsteps, she
turns to face us. The movement of her body nearly makes her heavy breasts
fall out of her low-cut gown.
My eyes flash wide, heat coming to my cheeks. She exudes sex with every
inch of her voluptuous body, her well-endowed curves, and her lusty
expression.
Lady Freya smiles. “You got my message.”
Arthur nods. “Glad to see you’re still alive, Lady Freya.”
“Sorry to hear Baucillas isn’t. He was a dear old man.”
Arthur bows his head lower. “Yes, it . . . stings. Thank you for the
condolences.” He lifts his eyes to the piles of clothes around the dark room.
“What are we doing here?”
“Having a secret rendezvous, obviously, my king.” Freya’s smile widens
across her round face. “And shopping. The ball is tomorrow after all, and I
wasn’t lying about my message: Your girl needs a new fucking dress. And a
bath. I can smell you mongrels from here.”
 I bite my lip, blushing. Freya has a way of making you feel less than, simply
because of her overly abundant confidence. Like you’re doing something
wrong with your life, even though she used to simply be a prostitute. She’s
since turned into one of the leaders of this city’s underground movement. So,
I guess in that sense, she is superior to almost anyone here. Talk about a glow
up.
“Where’s Sir Lamorak?” Kay asks. “Mer—our contact—said the two
remaining leaders of the rebellion would be meeting us.”
Freya’s smile falters. “Sadly, he’s indisposed.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s missing. I haven’t seen Sir Lamorak in weeks. I fear he might
have gotten cold feet.”
Arthur scoffs. “Impossible. Lamorak is as honorable—”
“I’m simply telling you what I know. I am the only one keeping your mutiny
together, King Arthur.”
That stops Arthur cold. He closes his mouth and nods firmly. “Very well.”
She pops a big hip out and puts her hand on it, then eyes us up and down.
“Tomorrow, we must strike. It’s the only opportunity to get close to King
Mordred.”
“Agreed,” Arthur says.
“We will have people in the castle, enjoying the festivities.”
“Spies?”
“What else?” Freya says sarcastically. She flares her nostrils and examines
another dress. Then she makes a face, clearly offended by the fabric’s quality.
“He will be expecting you, of course. I imagine Mordred’s entire plan here is
to get Lady Guinevere close to him.”
“We won’t let him snatch her away,” Lancelot says.
“Oh, I’m sure, handsome. I will be there, too.”
“Really?” Arthur sounds surprised. “Aren’t you too, uh, recognizable a
figure?”
She snorts incredulously. “And you’re not? I have twenty-six suitors waiting
for me. I can’t pass the opportunity to defile every piece of furniture in that
castle.”
Percy gawks. “Twenty-six? You’ll be busy, ma’am.”
Gawain mutters under his breath, “Avalon redeem us, woman.”
 “Yes,” she says to Gawain, purposefully being obtuse, “I’m sure some of
them used to be part of that outfit. Anyway, await the signal. During the third
dance of the third hour, a glass will fall. A woman will gasp, loudly, and be
ushered out of the main theater for drunkenness. Then all hell will break
loose.”
I blink at her. Look over at Arthur. He’s not as surprised, with his eyes
narrowed. “Then what, Lady?”
Freya’s smile is confident and sinister. “Then, amidst the chaos, you find
what you went there for, my king.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 56
Guinevere

After our clandestine meeting in the tailor shop, we walk into a tavern to
rendezvous with one of Kay’s scouts, who has been going back and forth
between Camelot and our army outside the city. Currently, our army is
stationed just beyond the touch of the Rot, where the dead trees and dirt
ombre into healthy grass and trees. That dying “touch” grows a few inches
with every passing hour.
I waltz into the sticky tavern with a new dress slung over my shoulder. It’s
not too gaudy, and the green fabric is a bit coarse, but it’s a lot nicer than the
traveling tunic and pants I’m wearing.
I told Lady Freya I didn’t feel comfortable stealing a dress from an
innocent shop owner, and she just chuckled at me. “Innocent? Honey, I own
the shop. And I’m far from innocent, as you know.”
“Really?” It was hard for me to come up with more to say. Of course I
know—I’ve seen a line of naked men crawling on their knees toward the open
legs of that woman. That doesn’t exactly scream chaste and pure.
In the tavern, I tuck the dress under my arm, trying my hardest to shield it
from the jostling men and wobbling drunks bumping into us. This place is
packed and raucous, like everywhere else in the city.
A woman is bent over a table off to the side, her round ass fully out
beneath the bundle of her dress. She laughs and moans as men take their turns
plowing into her. I see three, then four, then five men railing her. At one point,
it looks like two of them are filling both her holes.
At another table, a red-faced young man is being passed around like a toy
on the laps of different men, his legs lifted, bent at the knees, feet bouncing
near his ears. His hard cock sways every time he’s planted on another lap,
riding and groaning until he sprays cum all over the table and a man’s chest
across from him. That man laughs, smears the load into his mug of ale, and
makes the younger man drink it.
Ah, memories, I think, my face flushing as I look away. Depraved Camelot. Some
things never change.
I’m hoping that won’t be the case once we take down the Rot turning
everyone’s brains into sex-fueled mush.
Arthur makes sure to stand in front of me to block my view so I don’t see
anymore debased activity, and so the wild-eyed drunkards can’t see me and get
any stupid ideas.
In the first five minutes of stepping foot into this raunchy establishment,
I’ve already seen at least fifteen cocks and an ocean’s worth of sticky fluids.
There is positively no shame or guilt associated with anyone partaking in the
festivities here.
“Think it’ll be like this in the castle tomorrow night?” I ask Percival next to
me.
He grimaces, showing his teeth. “I’d say the odds are high, snoop. It’s
gotten even worse here than I remember.”
He’s not wrong. The lawlessness and public sex and exhibitionism has
reached a fever pitch in Camelot, in preparation for the ball tomorrow.
“Mordred might try to contain the lewder bits,” Lancelot says on the other
side of me, helping to box me in between my sturdy knights. “So as not to
defile the Pendragons’ sacred site.”
Arthur scoffs. “He’s more likely to encourage it, if that’s the case. Mordred
wants to destroy everything the name Pendragon touches. Desecrating my
castle seems like a logical step in achieving that goal.”
Gawain asks, “Will you do anything if you see it—if you witness a woman
coming all over your father’s heirloom furniture. Will it draw the wrath out of
you, Arthur?”
Arthur winces. “I . . . will try to keep myself composed. Can’t make any
promises, though.”
The guys laugh.
I don’t know how they can. This is so over the top. I have to remember
they’re used to it. The Rot has been around for a long time, and without the
Knights of the Round Table to provide some sort of stability in the kingdom,
it’s no wonder things have really unraveled. What was once confined to the
Grail District at nights, and the border taverns outside the city, has now spilled
into every nook and cranny of the kingdom, it appears.
Kay grunts and nudges his chin toward the corner of the bar. “There he
is.”
We approach the shadowy corner, lit by only a couple candles, and a
hooded man raises his head when he sees us.
The hood comes down, and my eyes widen. It’s Rhys, from Castle Sauvage.
Lady Mary’s man and Kay’s childhood friend. He gives us a small smile,
averting his gaze from the depraved fuck sessions going on behind us. He
looks wholly embarrassed to be in this place. It’s refreshing to see a man with
morals and shame, actually.
Rhys stands, gives Kay an embrace, and we join him in the booth.
“Good to see you again, brother,” Kay says. “How is Sauvage?”
Rhys blinks. He scratches his forehead. “Uh, a hell of a lot better than
Camelot, I’d say. Avalon fuck me, Kay, I had no idea how bad it’s gotten.”
Arthur says, “Mordred isn’t helping by throwing a fucking party while the
kingdom is on the brink of collapse.”
We all nod in quiet dismay.
“How is Mary?” Kay asks.
With a forlorn smile and a glint in his eye, Rhys says, “We’ve gotten
married. Her children are now mine.”
Kay lets out a roar of approval, smacks the table, and then Rhys’ arm.
“Congratulations, brother. I would say this deserves a toast, but good luck
getting us a drink.”
“We have important matters to discuss anyway,” Arthur says, then
shoulders Kay. “And you don’t drink anymore, remember?”
The big king grumbles and pulls at his red beard awkwardly. To Rhys: “And
Mary is safe without you there?”
“Yes. I’ve compiled a dozen men I can trust to protect her while I’m down
here doing your dirty work.” His smile falters. “It’s an overabundance of
caution, since Albert is dead. We have no enemies.”
My eyebrows jump. “What? Albert’s dead?” The man who tried killing me and
Kay in the bathtub? The same man who Kay pardoned, which gained him the kingdom’s
trust?
Rhys nods. “Two weeks after you left, he was caught attacking a woman in
the stables. Guess he never learned to keep his hands to himself.”
 Kay flares his nostrils and slams a fist on the table. “Bastard. I knew I
should have finished him off when I had the chance. What happened to him?”
“Pitchforks and torches, old friend. He was roused from sleep by a group
of men, dragged into the courtyard of the castle, and quartered.”
Jesus Christ.
“Well.” Kay hums. “He deserved it.”
“Indeed.”
After a moment of silence, Kay leans forward conspiratorially. The sounds
of sex, moans, cheers, and drinking are so loud we don’t need to act
inconspicuous. But old habits die hard. We are talking about insurrection.
“What do you have for me?” Kay asks him. “We haven’t seen any of
Mordred’s allies yet.”
“They’re staying well-hidden,” Rhys says. “They’re out there. Mark of
Kernow is a day away with his men, south, with Meliadus’ men from Lyonesse
en route. No idea where Morgan le Fay’s wretchkin are. Also, King Dirac of
Celis has joined the fray on Mordred’s side.”
The knights look pointedly at Arthur, who smacks his lips in a comical
expression of guilt. “King Dirac, eh? His brother deserved the same fate as
Albert. I’m not sorry.”
“His brother?” I ask.
“King Lac. Remember at the Meeting of Kings—”
“Right. Yes. Of course I do.” The king who slapped me, who Arthur beheaded. I
recall he had a brother he was worried would take his crown if he didn’t get a
breeding woman to pump out heirs soon.
God, it’s crazy how things can come full circle. The Meeting of Kings feels
like years ago—I’ve almost forgotten the exact circumstances of what
happened. Yet it was less than a year ago. So much has transpired since then.
“Mordred is aware of our position?” Arthur asks.
“Yes. His Camelot troops are starting to mobilize. He seems unsure about
your strategy here, wondering if you’re going to attack before or during his
party. Not to mention his troops are having a difficult time assembling a
worthy defense because so many of them have been tasked with keeping the
peace at the ball.”
“How many foot soldiers can we expect inside the castle tomorrow night?”
Lancelot asks.
 Rhys shrugs. “A hundred? Maybe less. They’ll be well-hidden, I suspect,
because Mordred doesn’t want to raise alarm. This is supposed to be a
celebration.”
Gawain snorts. “More like a mass orgy.”
“Like I said, King Gawain: a celebration.” We chuckle when Rhys flashes a
crooked smile. “On that note,” he says, “I don’t suspect Lady Guinevere will
be in danger at the ball.” When my knights stare daggers at him, he expands,
rolling his wrists. “Of kidnapping or anything of that sort, I mean. As I said,
Mordred wants to appease the citizens. He doesn’t want to anger them. Stealing
a well-known face in broad daylight, as it were, isn’t a sound strategy.”
Lancelot says, “Except Mordred isn’t of sound mind. So you can’t be
certain of that.”
Rhys bows his head. “No, of course not, Sir Lancelot. That is just the
opinion I’ve gathered from my observations.”
He makes me feel a little better, I guess. Honestly, I haven’t even been
thinking about a potential kidnap-and-hostage situation. I’m more worried
about my knights getting hurt once all hell breaks loose on Lady Freya’s
command. Or, conversely, my knights hurting others.
I mean, does Rhys even know of the revolt that’s about to spring tomorrow
night? Do these people keep in contact with each other? There are so many
moving parts here. It’s starting to give me a headache. Or maybe that’s the
heady scent of sweat, stale booze, and sex that’s blunting my mind.
“You’ve done well, Sir Rhys,” Arthur says, always one to call friends by
honorable titles. “Is there anything else?”
Rhys drums the tabletop, making a sucking sound with his lips. Then he
pops them and says, “Oh, yes, one more thing. And it’s kind of a big one.”
We’re all ears, heads bent forward.
“There will be guards at the entrances of the castle. No weapons will be
allowed inside.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Gawain groans, flopping back in
his seat.
Arthur’s brow furrows when I glance over at him. This isn’t a great
development.
“It shouldn’t surprise us,” Percival says. “It’s the only way for Mordred to
maintain some semblance of civility. Can you imagine what that castle would
look like with a thousand armed peasants, drunk, fueled by depraved urges?”
 Leave it to Percy to be the logical, pragmatic one.
Kay is raking a hand through his beard, evidently deep in thought. He
shakes his head. “It will also be a way for Mordred to corral everyone like
cattle, should the need arise. I don’t like it, Arthur.”
“Neither do I,” Lancelot says. “This has ‘ambush’ written all over it.”
Chewing my lip, I let out a little sound and draw everyone’s attention. “We
always knew that was a possibility, guys. We’re this close. Are we going to let a
little semantics and theoretical situations scare us off ?”
“This is more than semantics, little one.” Arthur’s voice is deep in his chest.
“It’s laughable to expect us to hand over our weapons at the gate. We simply
cannot go into a situation like that unarmed.” He lets out an incredulous sigh.
“Mordred thinks he can gain Excalibur this way? That I’ll simply hand over the
Relic always at my side? The fucking fool.”
“Arthur,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think Mordred even
knows we’re showing up. We can’t assume ill intent everywhere we go.”
“Of course we can. With my nephew involved? We can and should. Your
naivety is endearing, Guin, but I won’t let us march to our deaths this way.”
“Then what do we do?”
After a moment of quiet—or semi-quiet, since there’s a woman behind us
loudly getting her back blown out, and she wants everyone in the tavern to
know about it—Rhys taps the table. “I could get you inside Camelot through a
separate entrance, I bet.”
Arthur gives the younger man a roguish smile. “Rhys, my boy, I know
Castle Camelot better than anyone alive. Thank you, but I can find my own
way into the castle unseen, if it comes down to it.”
“Then let’s do that,” I blurt. “Sneak your way in, Arthur. Bring Excalibur.
It’ll give us some backup if we need it.”
The guys give each other skeptical glances. This was never part of the plan.
When circumstances change, though, the plans have to adapt with it, or else
we drown.
“Come on, guys,” I urge. “We’re so close.” I smile and lift the dress I’m
holding. “Plus, we can’t let my new fancy dress go to waste. Don’t y’all want to
see me in it?”
That gets a few alluring smiles from my wicked men.
Lancelot says, “If Arthur is going to sneak into the castle, then so will I. We
can triangulate our entrances to give us the best breadth of space.”
 I’m not sure what he means, and I say as much.
He draws on the table with his finger, to give me a visual on the wood
surface. “For instance, Arthur comes from the eastern wing. I come from the
west. We block out any exits Mordred might run off to once the revolt begins.
Keep him inside. More importantly, keep everyone inside, in case something
were to happen to Guin. Avalon forbid.”
Kay scoffs. “Nothing is going to happen to our little lamb.” He thrusts his
thumb between him, Percy, and Gawain. “We three will make sure of it. Won’t
we, brothers?”
They give firm, decisive nods. Before long, the six the men around the table
are looking at me, as if my decision is the final one needed to pass this vote.
They already know my answer.
“It’s decided, then,” I say. “I walk into the castle surrounded by Kay, Percy,
Gawain. Arthur and Lancelot, you guys find other ways in—which I know you
will—and keep watch on everything happening. When the rebels strike and it’s
pandemonium in there, we’ll catch Mordred unaware and make our move on
him.” I flash a sly grin. “What could possibly go wrong?”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 57
Kay

I won’t lie and say I’m not nervous. Truth is, as many strategies and
contingency plans as we go over, we can’t know what will happen in Castle
Camelot until we’re inside.
We have a plan. All we can do is execute it to the best of our abilities, and
watch each other’s backs. I feel confident, somewhat, we can make this work
and prevent mass casualties if Arthur is able to talk to his nephew.
I don’t belie my nervousness. I never do. My face stays stoic throughout the
night.
After our two productive meetings, we decide to stay in the city since we’re
already here. I send Rhys to inform the armies to be ready at a moment’s
notice. Gawain leads our party through the crumbling streets, into the Grail
District. Here, the debauchery is cranked even higher, somehow. We keep our
heads down and continue past the ribaldry.
He brings us to a small cabin of a house. Inside, we’re greeted by an elderly
couple who wrap Gawain in hugs. He returns the embraces like I’ve never seen
before, showing more tenderness in those two small acts than in the lifetime
I’ve known the wicked little knight.
Imagine everyone’s surprise when he announces them as his parents. His
true parents, he says, who he doesn’t want to keep a secret any longer.
Guinevere is the only one not shocked at this information. As if she
already knew. What other secrets are you holding onto, little lamb?
The house is hardly large enough to contain the six of us, but we make it
work. We sleep in the central room, on the floor, with Guin tucked between
our tangle of limbs.
As if the elderly couple sleeping in the adjacent room wasn’t enough of a
deterrent, we’re too tense and tired to fuck one last time. I thank Avalon we
managed to have an earth-shattering send-off before leaving camp for the city.
 Now, we must stay sharp and focused. I’m glad Arthur reminded me of my
sobriety—I wouldn’t want to become dull and stupid at this crucial moment,
even if I’m happy for Rhys and Mary. Those two deserve a nice life, and so do
those poor little girls. I just hope we live to see it transpire.
Guin is right. We’re so close to achieving our goals. Mordred’s dance could
be considered a blessing in disguise, helping to bring us to him.
I know it’s not coincidence. Even if Mordred himself isn’t planning
anything devious, I don’t hold Morgan le Fay in the same regard. That
conniving bitch will do anything to get her hands on Guin, which means we
have to stay ready.
Through the night, as we try to sleep, we can hear Gawain talking to his
foster parents. The walls here are too thin to keep anything, even hushed
voices, quiet.
“We were planning on attending King Mordred’s ball tomorrow evening,
son,” the mother says.
Gawain’s voice turns clipped. “I’m sorry, Mother, that’s impossible. I can’t
say much, but the ball will not be a safe place to be tomorrow.”
“Oh.” His mother sounds disappointed, sad. “I’ll take your word for it,
darling. That’s a shame.”
He continues his talk well into the night, asking how they’ve been and what
they’ve been doing in Gawain’s absence. I manage to drift off after a while,
and wake up next morning as the sun greets us to a foreboding day.
We stay inside throughout the day. It’s cramped and we’re getting jumpy, yet
I keep my mask of indifference well into the afternoon. Gawain’s mother
brings us fresh-baked bread and a delicious soup made from scraps. The
things she can do with so little are astounding, and give me some ideas for
future recipes and feasts of my own.
It’s been quite some time, I imagine, since Gawain’s sweet little parents had
any guests, and they are happy to feed us. Their weathered faces stay wrinkled
with smiles.
We’re appreciative and grateful for their hospitality. Arthur more than any
of us. It’s almost as if meeting these two has opened his eyes to the state of
his kingdom, and made him realize he must do things differently the second
time around, once he reclaims his throne.
As night approaches, Guin disappears for a few minutes into another room.
She appears in her dress, stopping all conversation. We gawk at her. She’s a
vision, twirling for us with a demure smile. “What do you guys think?”
The dress hugs every perfect curve of her body. Lady Freya really knows
how to pick an outfit on short notice, having determined her size and fit on a
passing glance.
For a moment, none of us say anything, which only makes the little lamb
more nervous. I’ve never thought of her more like a “little lamb” than this
moment. I want to devour every inch of her. I know every one of us is
imagining the things we’d love to do to her—the despicable and loving acts;
the cruel and caring explorations; giving everything she wants, and taking
everything we need.
Sadly, there’s no time for that. There’s bustling outside, loud voices coming
from every direction. The sun is setting.
We have a party to get to.

† † †

We walk with the multitudes of people to Castle Camelot, trying to hide in

plain sight for as long as possible.
Before we come to the cobblestones leading to the steep mountain, we
huddle up. Arthur says, “See you soon, brothers,” and then kisses Guinevere.
After a few nods from us, he and Lancelot wing off in opposite directions.
Gawain, Percival, Guin, and I decide to take a pulley platform up to the
castle, because Guin doesn’t want to flash anyone in her dress walking up the
steep steps that cut through the center of the cliff. We also want to conserve
our energy.
There’s a long line to get onto the platform. We’re fine with waiting. It gives
us an opportunity to survey our surroundings. Besides the excited peasantry,
there’s a smattering of guards out here, stoically watching everyone who gains
the stairs or the platforms.
“I don’t see any masks,” Gawain grumbles once we’re on the platform,
ascending the side of the cliff. “This isn’t a masquerade.”
“Would it matter?” I say. “There’s no hiding Guin’s perfection. She is a
statement piece.”
She blushes and ducks her head. “Thank you, Kay.”
I grunt. “I meant it as a compliment, but also a warning. Everyone will be
looking at you.”
 “Good,” she says, “then you guys can do your sneaky work while I steal
everyone’s attention.” She winks at us.
It makes my pulse spike. I don’t know how she can stay so calm, knowing
she is the object of everyone’s desire: King Arthur, the Knights of the Round
Table, and also King Mordred and Morgan le Fay. Probably more people we
don’t know of, too. She’s utterly courageous.
Once we’re up onto the dead meadow overlooking the city, I take a deep
breath. Elbows and shoulders bump into me, yet I don’t let them piss me off
or annoy me like usual. My focus is too centered on Guin. “Stay close,” I tell
her in a low voice, as we march toward the gates of the castle.
Six guards are stationed there, with spears drawn, surveying the flood of
incoming attendees. Rhys’ intelligence proved correct—they demand our
weapons before we enter the courtyard.
“Where will you be taking our weapons?” Gawain asks.
One of the guards scowls. “Does it matter, boy?”
I see a vein pulse at Gawain’s temple. He manages to keep his composure,
swiping dark hair out of his face. “Just know, we’ll come looking for them
when this is all done.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it all before. If you want to get inside, give me
what you have.”
Gawain draws his sword, and then carefully takes off no less than six
daggers from his person. It draws wide-eyed stares from the passing peasants
and the guards alike. Two guards pat him down afterward, and give him the
go-ahead.
I know they haven’t found everything. There’s no way Sir Gawain is
entering this building without at least one dagger tucked away.
I, on the other hand, am a simple target. I hoist my axe off my back and
hand it to the guards. Satisfaction fills me when I see the shorter man nearly
buckle beneath the weight of my weapon. “Careful with that, son,” I say
condescendingly. “It belonged to my father. If I come back and it’s not right
where you left it, there will be hell to pay.”
“Is that a threat?” the guard blusters, trying to step chest to chest with me.
I smile down at him. “Yes, little man.”
Guinevere grabs my arm. “He didn’t mean that, sir. Apologies.” She drags
me away, through the gate, leaving the guards staring holes into my back.
Percival gives the soldiers his sword and bow before joining us.
 I study the castle. It looks worse off than when we left. No renovations
have been made. Then again, what’s the point, when the Rot destroys the very
stone and foundation of everything it touches? Until we end this curse, the
castle we call home will never be the same. It will always look like shit.
Inside, it’s a bit better.
Mordred has used every resource available to make Castle Camelot look
decadent and garish. New paintings have been hung on the walls. The chipped
pillars barely keeping the place upright have been hidden behind tapestries and
banners of Mordred’s crest. The double-headed eagle stains nearly every free
inch of this place.
There’s no sight of Arthur’s rampant gold dragon anywhere. Not that I
expected there would be. A king rarely keeps up the banner of the man he
rebelled against and usurped. It’s the first thing torn down.
I suppose it’s simply startling to see the difference in the months I’ve been
away from my home. It’s darker, with wine-purple carpets to match the royal
purple of Mordred’s banners. The darkness creates patches of shadows in the
corners, and beyond the torchlight from the wall sconces. It’s almost as if
Morgan le Fay has put her own touch on the castle’s interior design. I know
she can travel between shadows, though I’m not exactly sure how it works. Can
she use any shadow? Or does she have specific portals in place?
Either way, Camelot reflects her darkness. I wonder if Mordred
understands that, or if he’s just gone along with everything she’s said.
The rest of my friends gape at the changes as we meander through the
initial halls of the castle. Our heads are on a swivel, taking in the stairwells
with their cracked-but-chiseled banisters, the new chandeliers, and the
inhabitants.
The commoners look like they’re walking through a museum or a place of
historical significance. Most of these destitute men and women have never
stepped foot inside this grand fortress. They’ve never been allowed to, unless
they received a formal summons or, on rare occasion, managed to set an
appointment with the king during the morning arbitration sessions. The
peasants stick out, because their best fineries are well below the quality most
noblemen and women wear at court.
While outside the castle is filled with swaggering men and women and a
boastful sense of entitlement, there’s an eerie calm and low din of hushed
conversation rippling through these halls. Once inside, the enormity of the
castle, coupled with the sculptures and royal banners and armed guards, steals
everyone’s breath away. It strips away the bravado and façades.
I see plenty of mouths hanging open, and bulging eyes.
Personally, I keep my eyes peeled on the guards. I watch their movements
as they stalk the upper level balconies, watching the throng of peasants making
their way toward the vast main theater. Other guards are funneling people
along like lambs to the slaughter.
It’s funny, that, since we’re joined in the procession.
I clench my hands into fists at my sides. Guin takes my hand, unraveling my
crimped fingers, and her touch immediately soothes me. On the other side, she
takes Percival’s hand. Gawain is skulking behind us like a shadow.
“Well?” she says in a low voice, eyes moving from the sunflower knight to
me.
I smile down at her. “It’s good to be home, little lamb.”

† † †

The theater is a massive, high-ceilinged auditorium—the only area in the castle

large enough to house everyone in attendance. It’s a garrison transformed into
a ballroom.
There are two staircases off to the east and left wings of the ballroom,
spiraling up to the higher levels. When we step in and shoulder our way
through the mass of humanity, my eyes move to the balconies overhead,
which ring the entire theater. Guards with crossbows and spears walk the
balconies, sticking to the shadows, as if waiting for the enemy to show itself
down below.
Percival gets distracted by the musicians off to the side, playing their lutes
and harps and other instruments to get people dancing. The party is well
underway. There’s a large space near the musicians where peasants are dancing
noble dances, circling each other and prancing about in traditional routines.
They aren’t graceful like trained, affluent dancers, but they’re laughing and
enjoying themselves. Off in another corner, a group of people eat from small
plates and bowls, and there’s a few tables of meats, cheeses, and fruits.
Everything is peaceful so far.
I frown, wondering how expensive it must have been to have fresh fruit
imported into Camelot. Or raise cattle, given the inability to sustain plant life
due to the Rot. The last time we saw fruit in this castle, it was used to poison and kill
King Uther. By none other than Mordred, too.
That thought sours my disposition.
Chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, alight with fire. Behind the
musicians against the wall, moonlight cuts through stained-glass windows,
illuminating the whole area in a picturesque way.
A couple men are in the corners with easels, painting the entire scene.
Mordred is making sure this night will be memorialized and saved for
posterity.
“I have to say,” Gawain starts, coming up beside us, “I’m impressed with
what Mordred’s done with the place.”
We chuckle. He’s not wrong.
Servants meander through the droves, handing off horns of ale and mugs
of wine. It’s a dangerous gambit Mordred is playing, loosening up his subjects
with booze.
When a servant comes to us with a tray, we decline, and he frowns before
moving on.
We’re committed to staying sharp. Especially now that we’re in the viper’s
pit. My face is unimpressed and unconcerned, but I have a beard to hide the
truth: I haven’t stopped feeling anxious since we passed the gates.
The guards overhead, with their crossbows, make me itchy. I feel naked
without my axe. We’re simply too vulnerable being in here, and we aren’t doing
enough to blend in.
Gawain says, “Let’s get into a crowd.”
I grunt. “You and Percival take Guin. I want to patrol a bit, count the
guards, and find Arthur and Lancelot.”
Gawain sighs. “There’s no way they’re inside yet, you big oaf.”
“I know. I want to be ready when they are. Are you okay if I leave you in
the hands of these two buffoons?” I ask Guinevere beside me.
She chuckles and gives me a small smile. “Of course, Kay. Just don’t go too
far.”
“On a night like tonight . . .” My gaze takes her in, from head to heel, and
she blushes when she sees the hungry expression in my eyes. “It would be
impossible to let you out of my sight, little lamb.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 58
Percival

While Kay goes to make sure our lives are not in jeopardy, and Gawain’s eyes
dart around the packed auditorium with suspicion, I give Guin a small smile
and offer her my hand. “Care to dance, my star?”
Her chest deflates, as if it’s the first easy breath she’s taken since walking in.
“Thank God. I thought you’d never ask.”
When she takes my hand and our fingers lace together, a bolt of excitement
runs through me.
I lead her toward the floor near the musicians, who are performing a
rousing carole. Gawain follows us to a point, then rolls his eyes at me and
stands off with the other onlookers. He might possess the only unsmiling face
in the area, arms crossed defiantly over his chest.
That doesn’t stop him from watching us.
When the song ends and the dancers step back, I drag Guin to the center
and stand across from her. She looks nervous and adorable, eyes scanning the
people around us.
I say, “Keep your eyes on me, snoop.”
With a gulp, she nods.
“Just follow my lead.”
Another nod, and then the first pluck of a harp string.
My right hand rises in front of me. Opposite, Guin lifts her left hand when
she sees other people on her side doing the same.
The routine is simple. We step forward, the backs of our knuckles ghosting
over each other. A sizzle of electricity hums between our almost-touching
hands, and then we spin in a circle.
The music picks up, and we’re off. Circling, smiling, laughing as the
procession becomes more heated and the pace quickens.
 After circling for the fourth time, I sidestep to the next woman, and Guin
does the same in the opposite direction. Our circling feet continue, yet I’m not
staring at this woman’s face—my eyes are locked over her shoulder, taking in
Guin with every step. Making sure no one touches her or looks at her the
wrong way.
The possessiveness and protectiveness I feel is something otherworldly.
Once upon a time, there was nothing I wanted more in the world than this—
as a child, I dreamed of playing music to the masses on a big stage, to the
delight of fans and applauding nobles. I would travel the world, gain renown
and notoriety as a roguish traveling minstrel who played in every major court
in Logres. I would be adored and loved by all.
Alas, none of that happened. My childish fancy changed directions when I
laid eyes on the striking Knights of the Round Table as they passed through
the woods in Listenoise. My obsession changed. Music became a hobby.
I suppose that’s the way of all things.
Now, I wouldn’t trade anything for what I have. It isn’t the adoration of
strangers and affluent royalty I seek, but the simple affection of a single
person.
As I finish my circle with the stranger in front of me, I pirouette back into
Guin’s vicinity. Her smile is wide, splitting her cheeks. It’s a contagious
expression. Our heads dip forward in a near-kiss, but then we’re thrust back by
the pull of the music. My long hair whips across my face, and I sway my head
like a lion to toss it aside.
Guin giggles. “You’re so beautiful, Percy.”
My cheeks singe with warmth. “You’re immaculate, Guin.”
We come in, palms threading together. We’re involved in our own dance
now, filled with barely contained lust and smoldering eyes. We never look away
from one another.
When we pull in close for another ring around the wheel, Guin asks in a
low voice, “Don’t you think we should be, uh, participating with the other
guys? Gawain doesn’t look too happy.”
A smile tilts one side of my lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be, snoop.
We’re fine right where we are.”
She’s right, though. When we circle next time, I look over her shoulder and
see Gawain scowling at us. It’s a look of pure jealousy I notice in my brother,
sure as the sun that he wants to bend us both over and claim us for himself.
 This is my moment, though. Gawain doesn’t get to dictate my life with my
brilliant star.
“Okay.” She nods encouragingly.
“What good is the world we’ve created if we can’t enjoy ourselves every
once in a while?”
Her beautiful face cracks with a short laugh. “I’d say we enjoy ourselves all
the time, Percy. It’s what we’re best at.”
Her reminder of our raucous bedroom sessions ignites my blood. We push
forward and our bodies fall flush against one another. I feel every dip and
curve of her soft body pressed against my hard angles, eager and wanting.
My body reacts as expected, cock twitching with excitement, the heat of my
body emanating off me in waves and mingling with Guinevere’s. I pull her in
close as the music reaches a crescendo, all the instruments melding together in
a melodic downpour of emotion and tenacity and movement.
My voice is soft against the shell of her ear as we spin. “There’s nothing in
this world better than dancing with the one you love, snoop.”
I’m satisfied to see goosebumps rise along her nape. I want nothing more
than to finish this tune and begin one of our own, more private, in a hidden
closet somewhere. Ripping each other’s clothes off, all too eager to feast on
one another’s flesh and love.
“You’re such a romantic, Percy,” she answers in my ear.
I let out a hum. Her palms are growing sweaty and slick, and it makes me
wonder if she’s slick in other places. Judging by the reaction of her body to
this mundane-turned-erotic dance, I’d say it is.
“It’s caused me a lifetime of grief, love. Except when I’m with you.”
The song ends on a boom. We spin away at the end. Applause ripples
through the crowd, and the musicians take a bow. Caught in the crowd, we’re
just two unknowns clapping our hands for an encore. The performance is
something I’ll never forget.
I look over at Guin and see her applauding happily, smiling at the musicians
as they give small bows of gratitude. An urge takes over and I come up beside
her, turn her head with two fingers, and slant my lips over hers.
Her clapping stops, hands in midair, and she closes her eyes to melt into my
kiss. Our tongues dance just as fervently as we were dancing moments ago. I
taste everything she has to offer, and heat swims inside me.
 When we pull away, her eyes are filled with lust. She bites her lip in that
adorable way she loves to do, and a sensation of ever-pressing need shoots
through my limbs.
I want to take her right here. I won’t. She’s right—we need to stay alert and
help the others. But what’s wrong with a little foreplay before the main act of
this party?
I glance behind us to give Gawain a smile—
And falter.
He’s not where he was five minutes ago.
With a sudden surge of panic, I scan the audience, trying to find where he
might have moved to. I can’t find him. My gaze goes skyward to the balconies.
I spy a flash of Kay’s frame dipping into a hallway that leads away from the
auditorium. Up to no good, no doubt.
He’s not the one I’m worried about, though.
I scan the eastern staircase and double take—
There’s Gawain, slowly ascending the stairs to the second level balcony.
Where are you going, brother?
I follow his trajectory, tightening my hand in Guin’s hair, pressing her face
against my chest, keeping her oblivious to what’s happening.
And what I see almost makes me gasp.
Further down the hall—surveying his party like a lord overseeing his peons
—stands King Mordred. His arms are crossed, he’s frowning, and he’s gazing
down . . .
Directly at me and Guinevere.
I hug Guin tighter, as if it’s the only thing I can do to keep her safe. I have
to keep her unaware or else she’ll unravel with panic.
We can only have one of us doing that at a time.
Mordred is on the second level equidistant between the two staircases. He’s
flanked by guards.
And Gawain, his brother, is heading right for him.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 59
Gawain

There’s only so much sappy affection I can take. I’m glad for my golden
sunflower to have a happy, memorable moment with our little lark. Truly, I am.
I wish I could have the same thing.
We’re here to do a job, though. I can’t shake the ache of danger throbbing
in my bones while I watch them pirouette and spin in circles, smiling and
giggling like children.
While those two are distracted by their feelings, trying to pretend this ball
isn’t exactly what it is—a catalyst—I scan the balcony and find my brother
staring down at us.
The ache of danger turns into a full-blown stab of peril. With the
exception of the scowl etched onto his face, I can’t make out Mordred’s
expression. He’s blank, dressed in a royal gown of purple and fluffy white
around his shoulders.
He fits the part of a puppet king quite well.
Once I’m sure Percy and Guin aren’t in any danger, I step away from the
dance and make my way to the eastern stairs. I have at least an hour before the
warning Freya gave us. I need to make my time count.
Though I never expected a face-to-face meeting with Mordred, especially in
these circumstances with him firmly aligned as our enemy, I have to do
something.
Yes, Arthur and Guinevere are the elected representatives to try and call off
this war. But I am Mordred’s blood brother, am I not? Who better to get him
to sway his mind than me? The burden falls on my shoulders, and I take the
opportunity.
Once I reach the top of the steps, two guards await. One says, “You can’t
be up here. Royalty only.”
 “I am royalty,” I sneer. “I am King Gawain of Leudonia, brother to King
Mordred.” It’s not often I play the don’t-you-know-who-I-am? card. I glance
off to my left from the last step of the rise. The guards follow my eyes over to
Mordred, who gives them a small nod, and they let me pass.
Once I’m in the hallway overlooking the auditorium below, I glance across
the way and see Kay giving me a nod before disappearing down a hallway. I’m
surprised he’s been allowed to roam these halls without being bombarded by
Mordred’s guards. I mean, Mordred can see him just as well as I can. How the
hell did the big oaf get up here?
I tap my fingers on the banister of the railing as I walk down the hall, then
turn the corner to face Mordred. His eyes never leave Percival and Guinevere
below. The guards at his sides tighten their grips on their weapons as I near.
“Give us a moment,” he says in a low voice, and the guards take a step back
to let me stand next to my brother.
Hands on the railing, I join him in staring down at the events on the first
level. “Quite the party, brother.”
He scoffs with derision. He hasn’t looked at me yet. I scan his profile. My
brother looks tired, with weighty eyes. Kingliness has not treated him well. I
imagine the pressure of being the sole sovereign of an entire kingdom,
without any assistance from the Knights of the Round Table, has ground him
down. Or perhaps it’s simply our Aunt Morgan.
“I thought taking everyone’s weapons was a nice touch,” I add.
“I’m sure the guards didn’t manage to liberate you from your entire stash of
weaponry, brother.”
I chuckle. “You’d be right.”
“Is your plan to assassinate me up here, then?”
“To be determined.”
His knuckles turn bloodless from gripping the banister so tightly.
“I’m only jesting,” I say. He’s on edge, and I’d like this conversation to be
cordial. I give him a sly smile. “I wouldn’t want to invoke the wrath of the
champion of the Tournament of Swords.”
It’s a touchy subject, the fact he managed to defeat me in single combat.
I’m not convinced our brother Agravain didn’t have something to do with it,
poisoning my ale beforehand. Alas, it doesn’t matter. That was a simpler time.
The silence is thick between us, our eyes glued to Guinevere and Percival as
they embark on their second dance routine. Percy has noticed I’m up here, but
what can he do other than continue trying to keep Guin at peace?
“She should be mine, you know,” Mordred says. “Not yours.”
I flare my nostrils. “So you’ve been saying. So you’ve started a war over.”
“I started a war to get out from under Arthur’s shadow. As is my right. He
failed Camelot.”
“And you are doing so much better?”
He sweeps his hand out. “Could you ever imagine such a thing? Bringing
the peasantry to my doorstep? Of course I’m doing better.”
I sigh, shaking my head. I’m not going to argue what this ball means for his
popularity. “Yes, well, you have it all wrong, Mordred. Guinevere doesn’t
belong to me. She doesn’t belong to any of us. We belong to her. That’s where
you come up short.”
Finally, my brother glances at me. Our faces are similar, but not entirely so.
His hair is lighter, my face paler. My cheeks are gaunt, while he looks filled out,
undoubtedly from eating like a king. “You’re saying that’s all it would have
taken? To agree to share her with the rest of you?”
I shrug. “The decision is up to her. Your chances would have been much
better, though.”
He dips his head left and right. “I don’t agree with that. You’re lying.”
“No. You simply must believe whatever it is you believe, because you’re in
too deep. Aunt Morgan has made sure of it. You can’t come to grips with the
reality of the situation, so you dig your heels in, fighting us at every turn.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel, Gawain. You may be older than me, but you’re
none the wiser. I’m smarter than all our brothers . . . were.” His voice ends on
a crack, and I can’t help the abrupt knot of grief that shoots through me. The
deaths of our three brothers affect me just as much as it does him. I just hide
my emotions better.
“You’re a traitor to your own bloodline,” Mordred says. His voice reeks of
contempt. “Allying yourself with a monster like Lancelot.”
I can’t blame him. Sometimes I feel at odds with my own morality, too. “I
don’t fight out of loyalty to Lancelot, or even Arthur.” Betrayal spreads
through me. I feel like a traitor just speaking the words. “I fight out of loyalty
to Guinevere. She is my Ever Queen.”
“Then she has you in as much of a bind as Aunt Morgan does me. You’re
no better than me, Gawain.”
 I smile wistfully. “That may be true, but I’d say my position is more
enviable.”
Surprisingly, he chuckles. It’s a humorless sound, like he’s not used to it. I
doubt he’s laughed in months.
After another beat of quietness, observing the rising tide of action in the
ballroom, his voice goes lower. “Think of it, brother. We could rule this
continent together. Leudonia and Camelot, allied like they were during the
reign of Uther and Lot. Brothers united at last.”
I grit my teeth and spit the words out between them. “That’s what you want
to say to me, Mordred? Try to collude with me and turn my loyalties away
from Arthur? It’s shameful what you’re doing, brother. Besides, I already am
King of Leudonia.”
His brows arch. “So I’ve heard. I hear you slaughtered our father like Kay
did his.” My brother’s eyes find Kay on the other side of the room, on our
level. He’s watching the dance as well, not doing anything to try and blend in.
Anger ripples through me. “I did no such thing. No doubt Morgan le Fay
told you that.”
He accepts my accusation with a shrug.
“It’s much more complicated than that, Mordred. Morgan was at the center
of it all, as she always is. She is playing you, brother.”
“Shut your mouth, Gawain.”
“She took the form of our mother to deceive everyone!” I yell, and then
notice the guards behind us getting jittery. I lower my voice, finding difficulty
containing my rage. “Morgan killed our father.”
He lets out another patronizing snort. “Your lies know no end, do they?
Why would Aunt Morgan do such a thing, when she was poised to bring
Listenoise and Leudonia into our fold? Why would she jeopardize my alliance
with those kingdoms?”
“Ask her yourself. I know what I saw. Maybe she did it to keep us at odds,
to ensure hers is the only voice you hear.”
“Then join me. Let us come together, as I offered. We could end this war.
Tonight. Right here.” Mordred glances over at me, scorn and hope in his eyes.
I shake my head sadly. “No, we couldn’t. Morgan le Fay won’t be happy
with just two kingdoms. She won’t be satisfied until she rules all of Logres. I
can’t let that happen. Neither should you.”
 “Just know, I offered the olive branch. The death that follows is on your
hands, Gawain.”
“No, dear brother. You know your terms are unfeasible. This is merely
small talk, which has never been either of our strong suits.” When he says
nothing, it makes me want to fill the void. “Besides, with your grand scheme,
what would become of Guinevere?”
A shrug. “I could find it within myself, I think, to share her between our
two kingdoms.”
I scoff. “There you go again, thinking you control her. Don’t you see by
now, Mordred? Guinevere is untamable. She is as free as the wind that blows
through this kingdom, and anyone who tries to stop her is on a fool’s errand.”
“You speak of her as if she’s your goddess.”
“She is.”
That draws Mordred up short. He expected resistance, yet I only gave him
the truth. His mouth stays open for a second too long before he snaps it shut
and works the muscles in his jaw.
“That’s what makes us different, King Mordred. Guinevere is my goddess,
and I understand that. Morgan le Fay is your handler. We are nothing alike.”
I want to get through to him, yet I can tell he’s too far gone. This
conversation was a mistake. It will get us nowhere, and only inflame our
dissension. I tap the railing lightly with my fist, and turn to move away. “I’m
glad we spoke, Mordred,” I lie. His offer has only added more confusion to my
life, when things seemed so straightforward before.
I would never betray Guinevere, obviously. I also don’t want to see my
brother—the final one I have—die in this pointless conflict. We haven’t even
spoken of Arthur’s need to reclaim his throne and the Relic of the Pendragon
Circlet. There’s no reason to, in my mind. Once he shows up, he will challenge
Mordred, and it will change the entire landscape of the battle if everything
goes well.
Mordred grunts in response, refusing to meet my eye.
I say, “You asked if my plan was to assassinate you when I came up here,
Mordred. Can I assume the same respect from you while we attend this ball?”
His chin falls in a curt nod. “I won’t send my guards after you, Gawain. Or
the Mistress of the Bridge.”
“And the others I arrived with?”
 “Well, I’ve noticed two glaring absences from your ranks, Gawain. You
wouldn’t happen to know where brave Sir Lancelot and Arthur the Terrible
are, would you?”
I shoot him a sly grin. “No idea, brother. I know they don’t mean to spill
any blood in here.”
He gives me another acknowledging nod. “Then everyone should be safe
tonight. It’s a celebration, not a battle.”
I let out a breath of relief and take my leave of my brother. It pains me to
separate after so long apart. Our lives have taken decidedly different
trajectories. It began the day Guinevere stepped foot into this court.
Our fates have diverted us, and there’s no going back. Only forward. The
wheel of fate keeps spinning through this cosmic jest.
When I make my way around the corner, toward the stairs to rejoin Percy
and Guin, the music ends on a strange twang and a roar of gasps and cries
gets my attention.
My head whips to the sound below, and I lean forward against the railing
with my jaw dropping—
Just in time to see a large chandelier fall from the ceiling like a slow-moving
comet.
It crashes to the floor in an earsplitting explosion, shattering into a million
crystallized pieces, scattering everyone. At least one person was trapped under
and couldn’t get out in time, and now rests in a mangled pool of blood and
broken limbs.
My eyes widen with fear and panic. Across the way, heading for the western
stairs, I lock eyes with Kay, whose eyes also bulge. Then I veer my gaze to
Mordred, positioned around the corner between me and Kay. He stares at me
with pure loathing and accusation, his face wrinkling in confusion and betrayal.
As if I caused the chandelier to fall.
I recall Lady Freya’s words: “During the third dance of the third hour, a glass will
fall. A woman will gasp, loudly, and be ushered out of the theater for drunkenness. Then all
hell will break loose.”
All hell does break loose. But it’s all wrong.
The mass below becomes a stampede of feet and flying arms and elbows,
as hundreds of people make for the exits and use their bodies as weapons. At
the same time, other people swoop into the room, weapons drawn.
 When Freya said a “glass,” I figured it would be a flute of wine, not an
oversized chandelier squishing a person into a pulp. Also, no woman has been
led out for drunkenness.
I snarl and gaze down at the pandemonium ensuing, trying to find
Guinevere, to no avail. My heart races. The panic inside me blooms into
horror—a helpless feeling because I can’t control this.
No, I think, wheezing through a tight throat. It’s too early for this!

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 60
Guinevere

I’m entangled in Percival’s embrace, smiling as he spins us around at the height

of the dance, when he glances over my shoulder and a look of horror drains
his face of color.
My smile dies at the sudden change—
A whoosh of air and grinding of steel roars behind me.
Percy tosses me around his body on instinct, shielding me as we both hit
the floor with him on top. Under his arm, I see the great chandelier in the
center of the auditorium crash to the ground and explode with a boom that jars
through my spine like a spear.
I clench my eyes shut and scream as shards of glass and crystal and steel fly
out in every direction.
Wrenching my eyes open, I see three partygoers drop like flies, crying out
as large fragments from the chandelier stick into their bodies. And that’s not
counting the poor woman who never had time to escape the fall of the
massive ornament, and is now a heap of bone and flesh and blood underneath
its metallic core.
Percival grunts and groans.
I realize he’s being kicked and prodded and smacked into by the stampede
of guests in turmoil. They rush past us, heading for the exits, bottlenecking
every direction.
“No! Get off him! Stop it!” I scream, but my voice is muffled under Percy’s
weight and the wailing of guests.
My hands go up to brace Percival, trying to push him off me. A man’s boot
lands smack-dab in the middle of Percy’s spine and he grimaces in pain.
Just like that, the tide subsides, but I see another onslaught coming as a
second wave of commoners—and some of the musicians, clutching their
instruments like weapons—head toward us.
 I roll Percy onto his back to slide him across the floor before the next
wave, but they’re so damn close!
“I-I’m okay, snoop!” he growls, shrugging me off and trying to get on his
own two feet.
“No you’re not!” I yell. A line of blood runs down his chin from the corner
of his lip. He’s sporting a shiner on his left cheek, where his head must have
smashed against the tiles of the floor.
It’s pure chaos in here. No one knows where to go, because they’ve never
been in the castle before. Others had already started drinking when calamity
struck, and now they’re wandering around aimlessly—every man for himself.
We have to get out before—
A gasp rips through me when I look up and see Camelot soldiers appear at
the railings on the second level, raising crossbows and leveling them at the
hundreds of people inside the room.
Holy fuck! It’s the Red Wedding! I have no time to appreciate my pop culture
reference before I see Gawain dashing across the corridor, furiously swiping
crossbows—forcing soldiers to aim wide, low, or high. His hands move fast as
he goes down the line.
I tug Percival by the shoulder, trying to drag him—
Another group of fleeing guests undulates into us like a moving steel wall.
This time, they see Percy on the ground and try to step around and over him,
but he gets kicked enough times that I know I have to get him up, and fast.
We’re going to get trampled to death in here, because the dance area where
we are is close to an exit behind us. I start dragging him and he shields himself,
arms over his head. He pushes with his feet to get standing—
And a man runs through us and breaks our connection, ripping my hand
away from his, nearly twisting my arm out of its socket. I screech, reaching
futilely as our momentum carries us in opposite directions. Starting to tumble
backwards, I see the fear on Percival’s face as he falls back, swallowed up by
the group of people.
I can just see his arm, and if I can only reach it—
My back thuds into something hard and I let out an oof of shock, wincing.
A hand closes around my wrist and tugs me in the opposite direction of
Percival.
Though I can’t see his face, I hear Percy’s cries of my name, muffled in the
crowd as we separate further.
 “Come with me, Lady Guin,” says a low voice in my ear, raising the hairs
on the back of my neck. It’s not one of my men—I don’t have to turn around
to know that.
Overhead, I spot Sir Kay jumping from the second level balcony, easily
fifteen feet down, stopping time—
And landing on a running person with a roar of anger. The man he lands
on is knocked unconscious, or worse, taking the brunt of Kay’s fall.
The massive knight staggers to his feet, limping toward me, tossing anyone
aside who gets within a few feet of him.
The hand on my wrist grows tighter. “We don’t have time! The rebellion
will keep you safe!”
I gasp and wheel around.
It’s Sir Lamorak, a hood over his head, hiding his short-cropped brown
hair.
“You were missing!” I yell, apropos of nothing. Lady Freya told us Sir
Lamorak had disappeared weeks ago.
Memories play in my head—awful memories of Sir Agravain and his men-
at-arms. Of Sir Meleagant in Pengwern, and his soldiers in the tavern. Of
Tristan betraying us to Meleagant, before becoming an ally.
Those twisting memories form into one succinct decision: Don’t fucking go
with this guy!
I try to pull my wrist free. “Let go of me!”
Lamorak’s grip is tight, unyielding.
Kay is twenty feet away, having come down from the opposite side of the
huge room, and countless people are between us. Gawain is fighting with
archers upstairs, making sure they don’t unleash their volley on the
unsuspecting, fleeing guests. Percival is stuck under a heap of tripping,
stumbling men and women, and I fear for his life because I can’t see him in
the pile.
Lamorak says, “It’s safe,” and pulls me harder.
I’m forced to go along with him, toward the exit, but I don’t make it easy. I
fight every step of the way, baring my teeth and smacking him like a feral
animal.
“Peace, Lady Guinevere!” he wails, ducking his head and trying to avoid my
wild strikes as he tugs me along. He’s much bigger and stronger than me, and
there’s only so much resistance I can give before—
 A rush of armed men and women sweep into the room from the exit,
dressed in ragtag tunics and leather armor, wielding knives and pikes and rusty
farm equipment as weapons. Reminding me every bit of Domino’s Avalon
Redeemed rebels . . . Except these rebels are on our side!
The momentary sight of the Camelot revolutionaries jumping into the fray
keeps me from focusing on Lamorak.
With a hard jerk of his arms, he wraps me in a bear hug from behind and
lifts me off my feet. I kick fruitlessly, trying to smack him in the nuts, trying
every way I can to fight back, but he’s determined to get me out of this room.
I lose sight of Kay and Gawain, lost in the tumult of a sudden melee, and I
suddenly feel very, very alone. Fear claws up my body, my stomach dropping.
“No, no, no!”
It wasn’t supposed to be like this! The “falling glass” Freya mentioned came an
hour early. Someone jumped the gun. Now it’s pure pandemonium. I have no
idea what’s going on. Where the fuck is Arthur and Lancelot?!
Lamorak drags me past rebels who don’t pay him any attention. We’re
going in opposite directions—they’re headed inside the room, I’m assuming to
find King Mordred so they can string him up and kill him.
A rebel pushes past me, shouldering us out of the exit, and immediately
flies back, jerking upright as two arrows lodge into his chest. I scream out of
anger and frustration and everything else bottled up inside me.
Lamorak carries me into a hallway, then a room I recognize as an
observatory—one of the spacious rooms I traipsed through with Dagonet
way back when, to the outside dueling pitch where I first spied Gawain fucking
Percival in the open. Now, this place is packed full of people. Armed peasants
fight confused guards and slice through the purple-backed banners of
Mordred as they stream through every entrance and doorway.
Lamorak keeps us to the shadows. I see where he’s headed: The door that
leads down to the prison basement.
New anger rifles through me and I kick and flail harder, trying to get him
off me.
“Fucking hell,” he growls.
He tosses me into a wall, and I put out my hands to catch myself, lest I
smack face-first into the cement.
I spin around to give him a piece of my mind—
Everything goes dark as a bag is thrown over my head.
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 61
Arthur

There are more entrances into Castle Camelot than the front gate and the
hidden exit behind the prison complex that cuts through the mountain. I know
all of them. I grew up here. I know ways of getting into the castle no one else
knows. My father made sure to show me as a young boy, in case of crises. I
promised to take the secrets to the grave.
He had high aspirations for me. He saw me as his heir-apparent, while
Princess Morgan assumed she would be given the crown after Uther’s death.
Perhaps if she had been crowned things would have never ended up so
fucked between us.
I make my way to the side of the steep hill leading up to the fortress,
keeping to the shadows. Watching, waiting, spying on the guards as they make
their rounds in pairs.
If I can, I want to keep from killing anyone. These are Camelot soldiers,
once loyal to me. Then again, they’re now loyal to Mordred. Perhaps offing a few isn’t
such a bad idea, because anyone I kill here will mean fewer soldiers on the battlefield
tomorrow.
For nearly thirty minutes, I keep to the shadows, until I know I have a
window of eight minutes to make my move.
Once the next round of guards passes, I’m off, speeding along the side of
the craggy hillside. My hands run along the rocks and jutting stone, looking for
the right one.
Eventually, I find it, and grab hold of the landmark. I hoist myself up and
climb six feet to a small ledge that overlooks the passage below. Above, more
rocks and daring footholds and handholds, except these ones are dangerous.
From that height, falling means dying.
With labored breath, I wait where I am, blending into the rocks. Another
duo of guards passes below. I stay stock-still, holding my breath. They’ll see
me with one jerk of an eye upward. I don’t want to give them any reason to
look.
When they round out of sight, I let out a deep breath. Then I turn, fit my
hands into the holds, and start climbing. My legs and arms burn within
seconds. I haven’t done this in ages, and I’m not exactly a spritely young boy
anymore.
Once I’m high enough, I level out to the side, taking my time to step over.
It takes a minute to find the open sewer tunnel I’ve been looking for.
I sigh, hold my breath, and make myself small to crawl into the tunnel. It
smells god-awful—rancid, putrid, like week-old shit and cloying piss. The things
I do for my family, I think, trying to occupy my mind so I don’t vomit. It’s
difficult keeping the bile down, but eventually the cramped corridor opens
into a taller, wider tunnel, and I can stand to my full height.
The central stream of the tunnel is drying and muddy with shit. I step onto
the ledges on either side of it, which at least keeps my boots from getting too
disgusting. This sewer tunnel carries waste from two-thirds of the castle, down
the side of the hill, and into a river. At least when the river was running. Now
it’s a dry bed and this shit has nowhere to go. It has to be cleaned out from
above every few weeks, but no one thinks to go this deep.
If Camelot falls, it will be because of shit—literally—like this. It will clog
the waterways and tunnels, overflow the cesspits, and cause mass disease and
plague. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already.
Thinking about the dire situation of my city while I trudge along brings me
to a ladder. I’ve been walking for a few minutes, and I’m well and deep under
the castle.
I climb the sticky ladder and lift the grate overhead, peeking over the rim.
Just as expected, no one is in this supply room. The shelves and tables are
filmed with dust, motes hanging in the air.
I pull myself out of the hole, double over, and let out a cough. Then I
pound my chest and rise to my feet. They’re counting on me to show up. No time to
dally. Even from here, in a side room far away from the activity in the castle, I
can hear muffled voices and cries of joy and laughter. The ball is in full swing.
I need to get over there.
I feel my way blindly through the dark storage room, and gently pry the
door open. It squeaks, and I wince.
 After waiting to make sure I don’t hear any panicked footsteps headed my
way, I crack the door open and stick my head out into the hallway.
It’s empty. I’m on the opposite side of the castle, as far away from the
auditorium as you can get. I’m not surprised no one is stationed here. They all
must be centered on the theater.
A sense of uneasiness runs through me. I don’t like the absence of guards
here.
In the hallway, I push my way through doors and rooms, hurrying, picking
up my pace. I have time before Freya’s signal will go off, but I’d rather be in an
opportune position for when that happens.
A steam of voices carries through the hall, freezing me in place. The voices
are far too close to be the muffled din of the partygoers in the theater.
My hand goes to the hilt of Excalibur. I sneak around the corner, and they
grow louder.
Men’s voices, growling and grunting.
Then the moan of a woman.
I furrow my brow and stop at an open door, peering in.
Lady Freya is inside, her flesh on full display, sitting on a table with her
thick thighs spread apart. She drags her nails down the back of the naked man
in front of her, his ass taut as he pounds away between her legs. She has her
head rolled back in an expression of ecstasy, but I can read the moans coming
from her mouth. They’re fake. The man inside her palms her heavy breasts
and smears his face between them.
“That’s a good boy,” Freya says, petting him, wrapping her legs around him.
The man jerks and fills her, then steps back. His cock droops out of her
and cum follows, dripping to the floor. As he steps aside, another nude man
walks into my view from behind the wall where I can’t see, stroking his cock.
I’ve seen quite enough, so I turn to leave and go down a different hallway
—
When I notice piles of clothes in the corner of the room, which I missed at
first glance. There are at least eight sets of trousers and tunics, with some
plates of armor and scabbards scattered about. I recognize the patch on the
shoulders of the tunics: three diagonal stripes and a single white line going
vertically through them. Morgan’s cult.
My eyebrows lift a fraction as I realize what’s happening here. In her own
way, Lady Freya is distracting no less than eight guards from their duties,
seducing them and letting them take her.
I nearly scoff with laughter at the notion. She’s got nearly twenty more to go,
judging by what she said last night.
Over the next man’s shoulder, Freya’s eyes peer through the door. She
winks.
I’m in the shadows like a stalker, yet I can tell she either senses me or sees a
glint of my face. My breath stops.
She grips the man’s ass, putting on a show, urging him deeper inside her.
“Go ahead, big boy! Do your worst!”
Her entire body jiggles as the guard gives it everything he’s got. “Gah! Take
that, you big beautiful bitch!” He groans, digs his hands into her thighs, and
comes inside her.
I take a step away from the door, ready to give Lady Freya the, uh, peace she
deserves—
When cries fill the night. Immediately after—a giant, shattering explosion.
My eyes bulge. Scattered, panicked voices follow, far away. I’m rooted to the
ground, hand tightening on Excalibur as one word surges through my mind:
Guinevere!
In the room, a soldier says, “What the fuck was that?”
“Just my fucking luck. My turn was next. Get your clothes on, men, we
have to go check it out. Sounds like it came from the theater.”
“Really, sir? We have so many soldiers in that area. Can’t we just keep
fucking this—”
“You heard your superior,” Freya says, her voice suddenly very different
than the one of pleasure from moments ago.
The chaotic noises become louder. I know a riot when I hear one. I bare
my teeth in a snarl, ready to run down the hall. If I hadn’t gotten caught up
here, I’d already be halfway there by now.
If I’m fast, I can—
“What do we do with her?” a soldier asks.
A moment of silence.
“Get rid of her. Don’t want anyone finding out we’ve been off our posts,
right?”
Freya’s voice lilts an octave, not so dour anymore. “Wait. Boys, my sweet
boys, we don’t have to stop. We can—”
“Shut your facehole, whore, before I stick my cock back in it.”
 “Just shove your sword through it instead, and come on. Harrington is
already halfway in his pants, and you’ve still got your cock in your hand,
Gormont.”
“Avalon fuck me,” I mutter to myself. Excalibur comes out of its jeweled
sheath with barely a rasp.
I turn into the open doorway and pound into the room.
Three men are to the left, two are to the right, and three are front and
center, standing menacingly in front of Freya, deciding her fate. They’re all
fucking naked, though a few are pulling up their trousers.
Lunging, I go for the ones standing in front of Freya first, with their backs
to me. Eyes swivel around at the sound of my boots.
I cut through soft flesh and spill innards and blood before the first two
men can even open their mouths.
“Oh fuck!” one of the soldiers off to the side yells.
“It’s Arthur the Terrible!”
I turn away from the remaining soldier standing wide-eyed in front of
Freya and slice crossways through the man’s neck. A geyser of blood sprays.
Two men try to escape the room.
I hack them down before they can get to the door.
“Peace, King Arthur, please! I beg for mercy!” another shouts, going to his
knees.
I growl at him, flaring my nostrils, and turn away to the next few men, still
nude but now wielding swords. I crash into them like a bull and put them on
the defensive, swinging Excalibur in arcs of death.
A nude man has a lot to fight for, but not much to fight with. When you’re
worried about losing your most precious limb of all, you can’t really focus on
your sword technique.
The men fall one by one, one of them clutching his cockless crotch, and
then I turn to the last man in the room, still on his knees, begging for mercy.
I debate giving it to him.
Freya jumps off the table. “Don’t want anyone to know you left your post,
right?”
He blanches, mouth popping open.
Freya slams a dagger into his neck five times in rapid succession, ending his
cries on a wet gurgle and red river.
 I sheathe Excalibur and turn to her. Her large naked body is splattered with
blood.
“I don’t appreciate you making me do that,” I say.
“I didn’t force you to watch, King Arthur.” A small smile creeps across her
lips. “I didn’t force you to kill those men on my behalf, either.” She sounds
self-assured again, as if she wasn’t just seconds away from a grisly death
herself.
I grunt at her answer. True enough, on both accounts. “You’re valuable to
the rebellion,” I tell her.
“That’s all?”
“Yes. If you’re implying something—”
She raises her hands. “Oh, no, my king. I would never get between you and
your Ever Queen.”
“Good. Then perhaps you can find somewhere else to sow chaos.”
“It’s what I excel at. I’m wondering what happened down below. That crash
wasn’t the signal I had planned.”
“I figured. Seems too early.”
“It is. Shall we investigate?”
I look her up and down. “I plan on it. You . . . do what you need to do. You
can’t keep up.”
She frowns as I move for the door.
Over my shoulder, I say, “Oh, and Lady Freya? You might want to leave
this room.” My eyes drop to the eight bodies strewn about her feet. “It looks a
little suspicious.”
She barks a laugh. “My liege, if people ran in here and saw this, they’d think
I was truly blessed by the gods.”

† † †

I careen down the hall, Excalibur out, shield drawn. I’ve already had to cut
down two other soldiers on the way to the theater, but I don’t care anymore.
Guinevere is in danger, and I can’t abide that. I should have never agreed to this
stupid fucking plan!
I barge into the theater through a side door on the second level, barreling
in and immediately slicing down two archers nearby. Everyone I’ve killed has
been wearing Morgan’s patch, so I know they aren’t loyalists forced to do this.
They deserve their fate for abandoning their true king.
My eyes scan the mayhem below. Scuffles take place in every corner of the
theater. In the middle lies a giant, shattered chandelier, with dead bodies
surrounding it. So much for King Mordred’s joyous event to heighten his popularity.
I don’t recognize the people fighting the soldiers below, but I know they
must be rebels. They have the attire of insurrectionists—old armor, shitty
weapons, anger pinching their faces. The same kinds of people I fought when
I was ousted from this castle, except now they’re on my side.
I make my way down the stairs.
Someone yells after me. “It’s King Arthur! He’s here to reclaim his throne!”
No I’m not, idiot. I’m here to find my girl!
The man comes running up to me with a smile across his face. Before I can
push him aside, an arrow strikes him in the neck and his eyes turn into saucers
before he sinks to his knees, blood spurting out of the wound.
“Fuck,” I say, and lift my shield. An arrow thuds into it.
I charge through the auditorium and make it into a hall outside the giant
room of death. Where are my fucking men? Where’s Percival and Gawain and Kay and
fucking Lancelot?
It’s crazy over here, too, with individual melees near the pillars and the walls
and every open space. Mordred’s banners have been brought to the floor and
trampled on.
Even with their valiant efforts, there aren’t enough rebels to overthrown
this castle. There are too many soldiers, with more flooding in from every
direction.
I rack my brain and charge west, away from the craziness, pondering where
I would go if I were Guinevere. I step into a small room with a door on the
other side, which I know cuts to another corridor beyond.
The door flies open on the other end before I’m halfway through the
room. A face pops out with fiery-red hair, and she steps into the room. Her
eyes are wide.
An involuntary groan of relief flies past my lips. “Guinevere!” I gasp,
barely able to believe my luck.
We close the distance between us and I wrap her in a hug. “Where are the
others?” I ask, then shake my head. “Never mind, I have to take you to safety.
Come on.”
 I turn, hand falling on her wrist to pull her with me.
She doesn’t budge.
My brow wrinkles when I face her. “Little one?”
She’s scared, her dress rumpled, her face dirtied with grime. She’s still the
most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. I wrap her into another hug, pushing
her cheek against my chest. “It’s okay . . . it’s—”
The wrinkle in my brow deepens, a knot forming.
Something is off.
This hug feels . . . wrong. I’m not picking up her delicate scents—the
delicious smells that draw me to Guin like a moth to fire. The hand on the
back of my neck, it’s cold . . .
“It wasn’t supposed to be you in here,” she says.
I stare down at the top of her head. “What?”
“Oh, Arthur. When will you remember?” Her voice rises, shrill and cold.
White-hot fire pierces through my back, agonizing and deep between one
of my ribs. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
My eyes widen. I stagger into her, gawking, gasping.
Guinevere pulls the dagger out of my back. I push her away, utterly
confused, ruined, broken. I stumble back a step as my lifeblood drips out of
me, warm and slick through my armor. My vision doubles and I blink rapidly.
One face is Guinevere’s. The other is Morgan’s.
“It wasn’t supposed to be you I found—but I’m glad it was, dear brother!”
I shake my head, slamming against the wall and grimacing in pain. When I
blink again, the double vision has turned into one. I wave Excalibur in front of
me, to fend her off, but she’s nowhere close to me.
Morgan le Fay blows me a kiss from her silver lips, grins, and skips out the
door she came in through.
I slide down the wall, struggling to stay conscious as darkness edges my
vision and I try to ward off the pain.
There’s a pulse in my head, rushing in my ears. Morgan’s abrupt shape-
shifting does something to me. Something is jarred loose in the cavern of my
mind. Excavated. That red hair, the silver lips . . . a dormant memory, perhaps?
It feels ancient and forgotten, from a different life altogether. It makes no
sense.
A bedroom. The beautiful body of my lover as I fold over her and kiss her
ravenously. As I enter her and take her. Then she’s standing, no less than a
second later, staring at herself in the mirror. I’m curiously watching from the
bed, as she rubs her belly in front of the mirror, her face slack with adoration.
And those gorgeous, full red lips turn silver and wicked.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 62
Guinevere

The bag is ripped off my head and I let out an ugly gasp. My eyes flutter,
taking in the room around me.
I’m in a familiar place. A jail room. I’ve been here before—hell, I feel like
I’ve been in every fucking prison in Logres during the time I’ve been in this
world.
Camelot’s jail is decidedly distinct, with cracked walls and the pervasive
rotten smell and feel of this icky place. And to think, it was in one of these
very rooms—one of these torture chambers—where I let King Arthur and
the knights put me in a stockade as punishment and brand me with their lewd
Oath of Devotion.
It’s punishment I gladly took. It changed everything, opening my eyes to
the possibilities of this world. Solidifying my connection with the strongest,
most obsessive and possessive people of this land.
I’m a different person now than I was then, yet at my core, my convictions
are the same. I would do it all over again if I had to. I’d jump at the
opportunity, now knowing everything about my knights and falling so hard for
them over time.
This time in the Camelot basement, it’s different. A tinge of excitement
runs through me as I think about my last time here, and what those wicked
knights did to me. The excitement is enveloped by fear, though. Cold, creeping
anxiety trilling up my spine.
The knight standing before me, even if he holds the same title as Knight of
the Round Table, is not one of my knights.
Sir Lamorak pulls down his hood and stares hard at me.
My back is to a table, the edge of it biting into my waist. I have nowhere to
run. I’d have to go through him to escape through the only door out of this
cell, and I’m not even sure that’s what I should be trying to do.
 I hear the familiar cries of fighting overhead, dust clouding down from the
ceiling. Confusion mingles with the fear in my belly. Might it actually be safer in
here than up there?
Lamorak is handsome, with shorn brown hair on the sides and a bit up top.
His face is severe, etched with a frown, though I’m not sure if it’s directed at
me or just the entire situation gone wrong.
I don’t know him well. I know he’s always been loyal to King Arthur, and Uther
before him. He started this rebellion. He gifted us horses to escape Camelot after
Arthur’s overthrow. Lamorak has looked after us from the shadows.
Torchlight cuts across his face from the wall beside us, shadowing half of
his stern features in darkness. He says nothing for a long time, and we listen
together to the sounds coming from above.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “What are we doing down here, Sir
Lamorak?”
“It’s safer down here, Lady Guinevere.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to hide my anxiety. “The signal went
off earlier than expected.”
“Yes. I’m not sure what Freya is doing.”
Is she trying to wrest power for herself ? She does seem like the ambitious type, and
obviously has a way of controlling men not many others—perhaps no one else—can
match.
“Are you calling Lady Freya an enemy?” Behind me, my hands bite into the
table’s edge, so hard the wood cuts into my palms. I hardly feel it, not trusting
this situation enough to look away from Lamorak’s face for even a second.
“No. I’m calling her nothing. She’s the most successful whore in this land.
That doesn’t mean she knows how to lead a rebellion.”
There you go contradicting yourself. I’m pretty sure calling her a whore is more than
“calling her nothing.”
“And you do,” I say. When he nods, I think, Jesus, I never suspected there’d be
backstabbing and breaking ranks inside a rebellion. We should have tried to communicate
more with our allies in Camelot before we came here.
Honestly, I can’t be sure Baucillas was killed by Morgan or Mordred
anymore. It’s all hearsay from third-party reports. No one who was in the
room when Baucillas was brutally murdered is here now. Or is he? Could
Lamorak have been making a move, even that early, and gotten rid of the old surgeon?
I wince when I bite too hard on my cheek and taste blood.
 Lamorak sighs, sweeping a hand over his head, ruffling his hair. “I suppose
we should get this over with.”
My heart smacks hard against my ribs. I don’t like the sound of that. “This,
Sir Lamorak?”
Slowly, he slides his sword out from his hip sheath.
My jaw clenches. The fear running through me turns into sheer terror. The
first thought on my mind? The same thing so many others have tried and
failed to do to me. But now, I have no protector. My knights are lost upstairs
—if they’re even still alive. I don’t have Arthur or Lancelot. Things happened
too fast for us to make our proper moves. We made the cardinal sin of
splitting up, lulled into false security by the musicians and general good vibes
of the ball.
When Lamorak takes a step forward, his face fully lit by the torchlight, I
notice something strange. His eyes are milky and white. Not blind but . . .
unseeing? Were they always like that? My mind whirls as I try to run through my
options.
From what I can see, there aren’t many.
“Perhaps if this were a different timeline, Lady Guinevere,” Lamorak says,
“I would have been one of the lucky knights to devote myself to you. Perhaps
I could have been a bond-mate, like the others.”
I have to keep him talking. As he takes another step toward me, his sword
reflecting fire, I reach behind me with a trembling hand and palm the dagger
against my thigh. “Y-You still can, Sir Lamorak. Please, what are you doing?”
That look in his strange eyes tells me everything I need to know. This man
isn’t going to try to rape me. He’s going to kill me. The realization slams into my
chest, and my fight or flight response kicks in. My shoulders go rigid as I steel
myself. It takes everything in me not to snarl and show him my teeth.
I won’t go willingly. I won’t lie down and take it. Fuck that. I learned how to
fight from the most powerful knight of all, Sir fucking Lancelot. I’ve come too
fucking far to let this misled rebel knight have the final say.
“Alas . . .” he drawls. “I’m sorry. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
I don’t know Sir Lamorak’s motives, but I don’t care. Traitor to the
rebellion? Traitor to himself ? It’s irrelevant.
On his third step, bringing him just two strides away, I whip my hand from
behind my back and show him my dagger. This time, I do snarl and bare my
teeth. “I wish it didn’t, either.”
 To his credit, Lamorak doesn’t laugh at me when he sees the puny knife I’m
wielding against his sword. His face stays stoic, possibly even a bit sad, like he’s
trying to resist the urge to kill me. He has the height, the size, the reach, the
weapon—every advantage you could want in a fight.
I charge him anyway, throwing caution to the wind before he can make the
first move.
When I lunge and stab with a cry of desperation, he sidesteps. I try again
with a backswing, slicing his arm. He hardly flinches. The momentary shock at
seeing the blood spray from his arm makes my eyes widen.
Then he backhands me. I stumble sideways, white lights firing off behind
my lids. I wipe my bloody lip with the back of my palm and lunge again,
thrusting for his chest.
His rock-solid forearm smacks into mine, throwing my lunge wide. My
momentum carries me past him—
Right onto his sword.
A strangled wheeze escapes my lips as the worst pain I’ve ever felt sears
through my stomach, branching out across my extremities. I double over, head
falling against his sturdy bicep.
So, this is what it feels like to get stabbed. Like, really stabbed.
My dagger falls from my slick palm. My face is clammy and pale as he
pushes me back with his free hand. When his sword slides out of me, a new
bout of agony rips into me.
My ass slams against the table’s edge. I feel so, so helpless. I can’t move my
hands from my stomach. I see my blood dripping from his sword as he
approaches like an undeterred sentinel. This is it, I think. This is how I die.
I gave it a good shot. Turns out a few weeks of physical training aren’t
enough to take out a lifelong student of war, even if Lancelot was my teacher.
Who would have thought?
I don’t shrink or wallow in despair as he pulls his sword back. I actually
square my shoulders so I can die with dignity, not trembling with fear. Now
that I’m bleeding, and I know the worst of the pain, I have nothing to be
afraid of.
Lamorak’s arm comes forward—
His body jerks unnaturally. His eyes screw up. There’s a grotesque snapping
sound, mixed with the squelching of ripped flesh.
 A sword point thrusts out of his chest, jutting through his leather armor.
He looks down at it. Then up at me. Something like regret and sorrow fills his
face.
He slides off the sword, crumpling to the ground in a dead heap.
Soundless, wordless.
I exhale shakily, my stomach jumping to my throat.
A shadow stands behind him, pulling its sword free from his back.
“Lancelot?” I gasp. “Arthur?”
No, this person isn’t tall enough to be either of them.
The shadow steps into firelight.
And King Mordred meets my gaze.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 63
Guinevere

“It was never supposed to be like this,” Mordred says, sheathing his sword.
Similar to Lamorak’s phrase, “I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” but
different. Lamorak spoke of a foregone conclusion and decisiveness: This is
the way it is. Mordred’s voice speaks of . . . opportunity? A chance of
reconciliation? A sorrowful past, with an eye toward the future.
I could be reading his face wrong, and his action. Sir Lamorak was the
primary leader of the rebellion against him. With him dead . . .
“Say something, my Mistress of the Bridge.”
I blink. My heart settles, but the pain is still excruciating in my belly. The
wound is off to the side. When I look down, I grimace at the blood trickling
out of it, staining my green dress in a patch of red.
Mordred gasps. “I was too late.” There’s genuine fear in his eyes as he
rushes to me.
I should push him back. Everything I know, everything I’ve learned,
everything that’s happened, tells me I should shove him away and die in peace.
But I have to know.
“Why?” I rasp. It was the question I never got to ask Lamorak. I won’t
make that mistake again. I’m tired of this confusion. I’m tired of . . . well, I’m
just fucking tired. The sharp pain at my abdomen heightens my senses and
frustrations. Mordred is right: It was never supposed to fucking be like this.
Before he answers, he leans into me. His body is alarmingly close, even
cloaked in his robes, furs, and grandeur. He cups my cheeks with both hands.
My eyes grow, staring into his.
Then he tilts his head and presses his lips against mine in a tender kiss. His
lips are soft, full, and bring a new flare of life into my body. I suddenly don’t
want to fucking die. I can take this pain, right?
 My eyes close as I try to make sense of it. I give myself to him—to the
enemy of my king.
To the son of my king, and the brother of my warriors.
Mordred doesn’t pressure me more than that. He lets me take control, as
confusing as it feels, and I deepen the kiss by flicking my tongue against his.
The sounds of battle rage above. Dust falls.
We part, and his nose rubs against mine. Our eyes meet.
“Because I love you, Guinevere,” he says. “Just as much as the others do.
I’ve just never had a chance to show it.”
My heart leaps, my throat catches.
“I’ve had to fight my brothers for the honor of your hand, every step of
the way.”
My brow twitches. “It’s not their fault you decided to revolt against King
Arthur, Mordred.”
A pang of regret slices across his face. For a moment, he moves his gaze
away from mine, and the shame is clear. “I know. I have not been an
honorable knight. I have lied and cheated. I have killed.”
So have the others. My knights have lied, cheated, killed, but the difference
is that it’s been for me, not against me.
“You have to understand, mistress,” he says, running the pad of his thumb
across my chin. “Everything I did was never out of spite for you.”
“It was out of spite for the others.”
A small nod. More shame in his face, curving his eyebrows hopelessly. “I
thought I was doing the right thing. I still”—he clears his throat and
straightens—“I still think I am doing the right thing.”
I feel pity for Mordred. I do. He’s been twisted and used by Morgan le Fay,
probably more than he even knows. This is the first hint of redemption I’ve
ever heard from him.
At the same time, I’m so angry with him. I’m at such a loss, confused with
my emotions. The pain in my stomach has somewhat subsided after our kiss.
It’s no longer the center of my thoughts.
“This is such a mess, Mordred.” My throat is dry, my lips are wet from his
tongue. My eyes are beginning to sting, and I know the tears aren’t far behind.
I want to be strong. For Arthur, for the others, I want to . . . hate Mordred.
I simply can’t do it. Even if my brain and body are telling me to fight
Mordred—to knee him in the nuts and try to limp out of this prison cell—my
heart is telling me to give him another chance.
I know what I have to do, even if it pains me. It might change everything
between us—everything that seems to be finally headed in the right direction.
“Morgan le Fay is not your friend, Mordred,” I say, giving him a pitying look.
“I’m starting to understand that.”
“She is using you.”
“That’s what Gawain told me.” His eyes flicker away, then back at me. “I
want to believe you, Guin. But Aunt Morgan has always had my best interests
at heart. Even if her methods may be brutal and destructive, she has always
looked after me.”
My forehead lines with creases. I reach up and cup his cheek with a palm.
I’m all too aware of the closeness of our bodies, his hands on my arms, his
heat grinding against my core and growing. “Oh, Mordred.” Even if he
doesn’t want my pity now, I know he’s going to need it in a second. “We don’t
have much time. Please, you can’t fight Arthur.”
Anger flickers over his brow. “Why the hell not? Because you love him?”
His grip tightens on my arms. “It would put an end to this, once and for all. If
he wants to duel me, I am obliged to—”
“Because you’re his son!” The words are out of me before he can continue
spiraling down this rabbit hole of despair and death.
His mouth stays open. Shock registers on his face.
“Because you’re his son, not his nephew, and I don’t want to lose either of
you. There’s been too much bloodshed already between sons and fathers.”
“You’re wrong,” he croaks in disbelief. There’s no bite behind his words.
He can’t accept it. He can’t deny it, either. “You’re saying Arthur and . . . his
sister Anna? My mother? Guinevere, that’s disgust—”
“The prophecy demands both your deaths to end the Rot,” I say, moving
past his reply. I don’t want to mention his precious “aunt” if I can manage it.
His nostrils flare. “The prophecy? Let me guess, Merlin told you that? The
Old One is as trustworthy as you say Aunt Morgan is, Guinevere!”
He takes a step back. The anger on his face is stuck there now. I’m not sure
I can penetrate it to find the redemptive Mordred I was just speaking with.
The caring Mordred who just kissed me.
I knew this might happen. As much as it rips my heart in two, I have to
continue. I don’t have time to get into the entire prophecy and history of the
cycle involving my family bloodline, but if Mordred really wants the truth, I’ll
give it to him. He deserves that.
“Morgan isn’t your aunt, Mordred,” I say in a low voice, tossing the second
firebomb onto the gasoline.
He scoffs, incredulous. “Now you’re just making up—”
“She is your mother.”
At his expression of pure outrage and stupefied silence, I rush to him and
put my hands on his chest to pull him close. “I can explain in more detail later.
You must know it’s the truth. I’ve seen it in the visions—the memories.” And
now I sound like a kooky conspiracy theorist, parroting Merlin. Goddammit.
This is coming out wrong.
I shake my head and try again. “It wasn’t Arthur and his sister Anna who
had you, Mordred. It was Arthur and his sister Morgan.”
Mordred’s lips open and close. He shakes his head, trying to refute it—to
disbelieve it—yet something like understanding flashes across his features, in
his eyes.
Still, he fights, croaking, “No.”
Reading his face going through the stages of denial and grief, I wonder if I
haven’t just fucked up. I hope I haven’t given him a reason to trust Morgan
even more, telling him the truth about his parentage.
Trying to explain, I open my mouth—
A whoosh of air musses my hair, rustling his robe, stopping me short.
A gigantic shadow rises behind him, looming. My cheeks pale. Mordred
senses the danger, spins around—
Too late.
Lancelot towers over him, wings unfurling, black veins webbing up his neck
and body. He growls a guttural, grating sound, like lava spilling over obsidian.
Before I can blink, Lancelot flies past me and takes Mordred with him. The
monstrous demon-knight slams Mordred against the wall and lifts him up by
the collar with one meaty, prickly forearm pressed against his throat.
Mordred’s feet dangle and he chokes for breath, back against the wall, face
turning red and purple.
Lancelot took one look at the dead Sir Lamorak at my feet, and Mordred
inches away from me, and jumped on him. His razor claws prick the sides of
Mordred’s face.
 “No! Lancelot!” I cry, rushing to them. I reach out to put a hand on
Lancelot’s grizzled, muscled body for the first time in this form.
He shoots me a death glare and snarls, showing me fangs dripping with
saliva. His eyes are pure red and gold.
I pull my hand back, frightened.
“Do it, you fucking f-fiend,” Mordred chokes through the windpipe
Lancelot is crushing with his forearm. “Finish what you f-fucking started.”
A sob tears through me. Physically, I can’t stop Lancelot. He’s in a
protective trance, not listening to me, unable to stop himself. “Don’t hurt him,
Lance!” I scream.
“Unhand my brother, you vile beast!”
My head swings to the door as a figure pours into the room, a sword in his
hand.
“Gawain!” I cry out. Before I can stop him, the knight lunges forward to
attack Lancelot. “No!”
Gawain stops his charge, circling behind Lancelot with knees bent. My cry
did something to give him pause. He scowls at me, sweeping a hand at
Lancelot playing with Mordred like he’s a toy. “Don’t you see, lark? If it was up
to Morgan, all of us would be down here in the prison right now, capturing us
when we stepped foot in this castle. But we aren’t. Mordred is acting
independently of her, not following her orders. He is not the enemy we think
he is—”
“I know that! I agree! Neither is Lancelot!”
Gawain’s chin trembles. “I’m sorry,” he says, resigning himself to
something, bowing his head. “Mordred is the only brother I have left. Even if
I hate him, even if my king hates him . . . I won’t let Sir Lancelot kill my final
sibling.” With that, he raises his sword to stab Lancelot in the back.
I groan, palming my mouth as agony, pain, and grief batter me in waves.
Lancelot turns at the last second and takes Gawain’s sword across the
forearm. Black blood spatters across him. The demon lets out a mighty roar,
reaches to his side, and flings Mordred across the room like he weighs nothing.
The king flies, robes fluttering, and slides across the ground to crash against
the wall. He doesn’t get up.
Lancelot advances on Gawain, claws bared.
I skitter forward to stop him—
 And Gawain swings, forcing Lancelot to furl his wings and take the hit
across the back.
Gawain pulls back to hack again—
Lancelot opens his wings and beats them once to smack Gawain and toss
him across the room like his brother.
Gawain crashes against the wall and slides down, his sword clattering to the
ground. His chin drops, head drooping against his chest.
I stare aghast. Horrified.
Blackened, fuzzy arms encircle my waist, gently. I look down and see claws
closing around me.
Lancelot pulls me against his massive chest. He sniffs between the nape of
my neck and my cheek, and lets out a low clicking sound in my ear, as if he’s
curious.
“L-Lancelot, wait—”
He bounds through the doorway of the cell, ending my plea on a shriek.
His wings pump. He lifts inches off the ground to fly forward, careening
through the narrow hall away from the entrance of the jail, plunging us into
the dark caves beyond.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 64
Guinevere

We burst out of the cave exit at the back of the Camelot hillfort, and Lancelot
doesn’t slow down. He sped us through the system of winding caverns and
labyrinthine corridors in record time.
Now he takes to the dark sky. His wings beat hard against the wind and we
quickly ascend.
My hair blows around my face, a scream dies on my lips, and serene
calmness envelops me when he levels out, his wings slowing to a gentle
rhythm.
Eyes burning from the rush of the wind, my jaw drops as Lancelot curves
in the air, banking to the side, and the entirety of Camelot City is laid out
before us.
Peaceful. It looks peaceful and dark, though I know there’s absolute
madness going on in the castle. When I look down, my stomach drops to my
feet. We have to be over a hundred feet in the sky. The heels I wore with this
dress have long since flown away, and now my toes prickle from the icy chill of
the wind.
The sensation that fills me is . . . amazing.
I’m fucking flying.
Lancelot holds me tight against his body, but makes sure not to crush me.
His guttural sounds have turned low and crooning. I can feel every inhale and
exhale of his powerful lungs against my back.
Flying like this is the most liberating feeling I’ve ever experienced. I imagine
it’s like skydiving, except without the rush of terror from free-falling. There’s
still a rush, except it’s one of pure exhilaration.
I start laughing. Slowly at first, then maniacally.
I think I am well and truly losing my fucking mind.
 I’m in the arms of a demon, of a man I love, and he’s bringing me across
the skyline of Camelot to God-only-knows where. Who would have ever
expected something like this in my future back in New York, when I was
letting sleazy white-collar chumps like John Doe fuck me so I could stay
afloat?
Did Grandma Gwenny know she would be sending me on such an exciting,
dangerous, crazy adventure? Did she retain enough of her memories in Logres
to recall what this is like? I have to remember no one in my bloodline has ever
made it this far in the timeline. I’ve pushed the cycle further than anyone. So
maybe Gwenny never experienced this. Like the other Guineveres before her,
she left once she learned Mordred and Arthur had to kill each other.
I’m still not sure if I can stop that. For just a few minutes, I let myself go,
close my eyes, and marinate in the peace of flight, in the sturdy arms of my
demon-knight.
When I open them, we’re descending. It’s a mellow, layered glide through
the sky. The rush of air jostles my cheeks.
We land somewhere in the petrified King’s Wood. Lancelot’s clawed feet
land first with a thud. He goes to his knees and I slide down from his chest,
immediately spinning around, wincing with pain from my belly.
I had totally forgotten about that while in the air, and for a quick moment I
wonder if I won’t actually die from Lamorak stabbing me.
Lancelot stays on his knees, which almost makes us eye-level with each
other. My arms wrap around him before I know what I’m doing. I can’t reach
all the way across his broad shoulders. I stuff my face against his and whisper,
“Thank you.”
I’m not even sure what I’m thanking him for. Saving me? Getting me out
of that hellscape in Camelot? Stealing me away? Showing me the surreal
experience of flying?
I smile at him, and watch as his red eyes dim.
He lets out a soft growl. Then his nose, which is more of a snout, nudges
my cheek. I chuckle, and get the urge to scratch behind his pointed ears like a
dog.
He moves forward on all fours, wings close around his body. It forces me
to backpedal so he doesn’t run me over.
My back bumps against a petrified tree. Chips of bark fall all around me.
 He stands to his full height, forcing me to crane my neck and look up, and
up, and . . .
God, he’s fucking tall and huge in this form. Probably nearly eight feet.
He’s, well, inhuman in size. Every corded muscle of the man I know is
accentuated, layered with bulk and black veins. Fur coats his sides and legs. His
face has the human qualities of Lancelot, with the etched scars, but also a
devilish mien with sharp cheeks and a slanted chin. While his red eyes are new,
the gold flecks in them remind me of the man, not the beast.
As a creature, he’s terrifying.
As my creature, he’s beautiful.
When he dips his chin, getting his face mere inches from mine, a shiver
runs through me. He lets out a coo, rolling his tongue.
“L-Lancelot,” I say, my voice throaty and thick.
He opens his maw and his long, pointed tongue falls out. Then he gently
laves the side of my face, and the shiver I felt roars tenfold, though not out of
disgust. His tongue is bumpy, dark, and so freaking wet.
As ashamed as I am to admit it, so am I. I’m not sure what it says about me
that my body betrays me at a moment like this. I should be scared to death of
him accidentally poking me with his claws or jagged fangs. And yet, I’m not
scared at all.
This is a man who has saved me more times than anyone else in Logres. At
the height of our adventure, I felt safer with him than I’ve ever felt with
anyone.
I’m the catalyst for all these men. Mordred entered that cell to save me.
Lancelot came in to save me. Gawain charged in to save me and Mordred from
the threat he thought Lancelot posed.
I have these men at my beck and call. What Morgan has tried to force her
son to do, I’ve managed to do without bringing wickedness and deceit into the
equation. They want nothing more than to serve me. And that gives me a
sense of control I’ve never had in my life.
My hand cradles Lancelot’s grizzled cheeks. I run my knuckles gently down
the contours of his monstrous face.
When he licks me, I’m tempting to suck his tongue, but I resist. Call it the
freak in me.
I squeeze my thighs together. My body has betrayed me. Here I am with a
flesh-and-blood demon, yet I don’t fear for my life. Quite the opposite, I’m
exhilarated, like I was in the sky. Except now, even with my feet firmly on the
ground, I feel a sense of weightlessness crashing over me.
Yes, Lancelot screwed up tonight. He didn’t know Mordred wasn’t trying to
kill me—that he saved me from Sir Lamorak. How could Lancelot know that?
Up until tonight . . . up until that kiss I shared with him . . . Mordred has been
our enemy every step of the way.
I’m the only one who truly knows Mordred. In that fateful minute between
killing Lamorak and Lancelot showing up, he was trying to redeem himself.
Trying to atone for his sins.
So why can’t Lancelot, too?
I feel something hard at my middle. When I glance down, my cheeks flush
and my mouth opens. “Oh, shit.”
Lancelot’s cock in this form isn’t human, either. Big surprise. For one, it’s
also inhumanly sized. The appendage is ridiculously massive, far too big to
take, with a dark sheen and black veins running along the shaft. It’s more
reminiscent of a horsecock than a human’s. It’s curved and tapers at the end,
with a fist-sized purple head prodding against my belly.
I wince in pain. My wound flares, stealing my thoughts, and my wince turns
into a grimace as I clench my teeth.
Lancelot makes that strange clicking sound and pulls back, as if ashamed.
“N-No,” I groan, clutching my side. “It’s not you, love. It’s . . . I’m injured.”
He goes to his knees. I slowly remove my hand to show him the bloody
splotch and tear in my dress.
His growl is forlorn, like a wolf calling softly to the moon. He reaches up
with a clawed hand, and I worry he might accidentally make the wound bigger
inspecting it.
Then his claws recede, disappearing into his hand. Paw. Whatever it is. With
his other hand, he drags a line with one claw against his palm. Black blood
trickles down the open gash, and he shows me his palm.
My eyes widen. “What . . . what’s this?”
He moves my hand away and gently presses his bleeding palm against my
wound, before I can try to get him to stop or teach him about infections and
all that.
A rush of ice swirls through my insides. I seethe, sharply sucking in a
breath. My neck tautens and I go very, very still, my whole body flexing.
 Then, the ice warms. It floods my body like a drug coursing through my
veins. I glance down, furrowing my brow. Things feel different. The pain is
less, subsiding more and more with every passing second.
Hurrying with my dress, I lift the hem higher and higher, until I bunch it
above my stomach and . . .
The wound is fucking gone. Closed up, with only a pink, puffy scar to show
I was ever hurt in the first place.
I gawk at Lancelot. “Holy shit. Demon blood . . . heals?”
He’s not responding, or looking at my face. His hound-like growl has
turned low, thick, and full.
I follow his eyes . . . to my pale, bare thigh, which I’ve exposed while lifting
my dress. “Shit.”
His snout puffs and heat washes over my face. He closes the distance,
essentially pinning me to the tree.
His demonic cock rubs against my middle.
“Lance,” I murmur, “as much as I would love to brag to all my friends
about fucking a demon, there’s no way something like that would fit. You were
already too big as a freaking human!”
He grunts and closes his eyes.
I look him up and down and up and—
What the fuck? His dick is smaller. I swear, what used to look like a veiny
tree trunk now looks almost, um, ride-able? The power of his blood seems to
have done something to my inhibitions, or maybe I was like this all along.
Before I can try to make any sense of this, I reach out and wrap both
hands around his cock. One at the base, one near the tapered tip. Heavy balls
swing against my wrist when he moves forward.
I blink rapidly, my mouth staying open. His shaft is velvety, not coarse like I
expected. His oversized monster cock now fits in my hands, though it’s still a
struggle. I’m not even sure if I’m doing it correctly—
Yep, I sure am. If I had to call that look on his face one thing, I would call
it pure pleasure. His eyes are half-lidded, the sound coming from his throat
unlike the other clicks and growls. It’s a hum of approval. Liquid spills from
the tip, flowing down both my hands. It’s, um, a lot.
He reaches down and circles my waist with a hand.
“Oh, Jesus,” I groan as my feet leave the ground. I’ve been in this position
before, and it’s always started out somewhat hesitantly, ultimately always
leading to the best feelings of my life.
Lancelot lifts me with one hand like I’m a bag of feathers. I’m at eye-level
with him, a few feet in the air. I don’t fight him. Even when he licks my face, I
don’t recoil or shudder. Even when he lifts my dress with his free hand, I don’t
resist.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s like I’m trapped in a daze. Then I realize
something. It might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t feel wrong
or ashamed about this.
When his demon cock lines up between my legs, I spread my thighs and
drip all over him. His head tilts to the side, as if . . . asking me for consent?
I’m not sure what that look says.
To ease the tension rippling through his shoulders, I reach out, caress his
chin, and smile. “You aren’t a monster to me, Lance. You’re just you. This is
who you are. This is what I’ve been telling you to stop hiding from. You have
no reason to be ashamed of what you are.”
A low purr.
A decisive nod from me. “Do it. I want to know all of you, and this is the
only part I’ve never known. So show me.”
Lancelot slowly lowers me onto his cock, my backside lifting off the tree
trunk. When he plants me on his length, I gasp. My pussy widens, engulfing
him, and he fills me. My eyes flutter. The curve of his cock hits everything
perfectly, and it isn’t long before I’m moaning.
With low groans, he moves his hips. It feels different than a human cock,
but not bad. No, it feels fucking amazing, like smooth lace and hard stone,
coring out my insides.
He hilts me down to his massive balls and I lose myself, unraveling and
coming all over him. It takes less than five minutes, but he doesn’t stop there.
The fullness inside me expands after my first abrupt orgasm. Literally,
stuffing me to the brim, shoving my walls aside and filling every inch of me.
With a wordless sound, I glance down and realize he’s enlarged his cock.
This magical fucking monster can change his size to suit my needs, and now
that I’m sufficiently wet and accommodating, he’s decided to press his luck.
“Holy f-f-fuck,” I stammer. “Lancelot, oh God!”
He moves me more fervently on his cock, and my legs start swinging. I
can’t control them—they’re boneless noodles that just happen to be attached
to my body. He’s made me numb with pleasure and more than a little pain.
 It’s by far the largest thing I’ve ever had inside me. Even with two of my
knights’ cocks penetrating a single hole, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this
completely filled and overstuffed.
I reach out to put my hands on his shoulders, trying to leverage myself. I
have no control of this situation. I know he could completely ravage me if he
wanted. He’s trying not to break me, though. Like, actually trying to make sure
he doesn’t snap me in two.
Even as a shape-shifted monster, Sir Lancelot has more chivalry in his
clawed pinky than most men have in their entire bodies.
I come again, wetting his cock, toes curling. My moans carry through the
forest, echoing off the branches and sending birds cawing into the sky.
I know one of our regiments is situated near the King’s Wood. “We don’t
have long, Lance,” I gasp. As much as I want him to take me for the next hour,
I fear for his life. If any scouts came searching and saw an eight-foot demon
fucking the Ever Queen of Logres against a tree, well, there’d be questions.
More like an inquisition. Probably a witch-burning.
The tapered head of his cock punches into me, and stars shoot behind my
lids. Everything goes black for a second as I almost pass out from the sheer
enormity and severity of what he’s doing to me. It’s so wrong but so fucking
hot. None of the others need to know. None of—
The others!
Holy fuck, how could I be so stupid? So forgetful and awful? I truly have
been in a daze. Arthur and the others are still in the castle! I don’t even know if they’re
alive! Gawain and Mordred were unconscious—
Lancelot throbs, stretching me in two. I’m ripped back to the present.
He’s bigger than ever. I can’t even take half of him like this. I guess he
decided the size—to touch every single spot of me, light every inch inside
with scorching sensations—was more important than utility and practicality.
Warmth floods my system. I moan and pulse with need, and then I’m
exploding with him, crashing our waves together against the rocky shore so we
can lose ourselves for one last minute before the inevitable impending doom
of our situation pulls us back into the dark ocean of war.
Bliss joins with shaky pleasure. He throbs for nearly a minute straight, cock
expanding and contracting inside me. His monstrous cum fills me and I roll
my head back, taking it all. I’m stuffed, hand going to my belly, and feel the
bulge and bloat of my stomach as he pours into me with a veritable river.
 His roar is strained. He howls, and I howl with him, unraveling together.
When he slowly pulls out, he unclogs me. Air chills my gaping hole and his
flood of cum spills out of me like a waterfall. I watch it pool at the ground
beneath my dangling feet.
My body twitches, convulsing. The black veins recede from his face, his
eyes closing, and he goes to his knees.
My feet touch the ground. I slide, back against the tree, and wobble my ass
to the dirt to take shallow breaths, trying to remain conscious. I’m still spilling
Lancelot’s demonic seed out of me. My head falls back, my eyes close . . .
When I open them, the sky is lighter. Gray instead of mournful purple.
Lancelot is naked, petting my head, in his human form. His back is against the
tree, with my head in his lap. His very large, very human cock is very close to
my face. I can smell the sex and masculine scent of him, the pine trees and
natural musk.
My face jolts up off his lap. “The others.”
He gives me a crooked smile, leans in, and kisses my frightened lips.
“Morning, fireheart.”
“We don’t have time,” I say, shaking my head, getting to my feet—and I
almost topple over as a wave of dizziness swims through me. “Ugh, fuck.” I
put a hand to my throbbing forehead.
“The others are alive. There’s nothing we can do right now. We would have
felt if anything happened to them.”
I furrow my brow. “The Oath of Devotion?”
He nods. “The same thing that set you off when Sir Dagonet died. Your
oath wasn’t as solid with him, for obvious reasons, but you still felt it. This
would be much, much worse if anything happened to Arthur, Gawain, Kay, or
Percival.”
“But . . . Gawain. Mordred.” I point back through the gnarled tree branches
hemmed around us. “They’re still in there. We have to go, Lance.” When his
face sinks, I sigh. “Look, you know I love you. I wish we could bask in the, uh,
what we’ve just done, but that’s going to take some unpacking we don’t have
time for. We forgot ourselves for a moment—I forgot myself, and now I feel
awful.”
“You just fucked a demon, fireheart. Regret is to be expected.”
“It’s not regr—” I flare my nostrils. “How are you so calm?”
“Really? I’ll give you one guess.”
 I roll my eyes. It takes everything in me not to dip them south while I’m
completing my roll. I don’t have time to drool over Lancelot’s cock, or ride
Lancelot the human after just letting Lancelot the demon demolish me.
“We’ll make our way to the army,” he says. “The others will turn up. I
promise.”
“We can’t just wait around for that! What are we supposed to do?” I cry,
throwing my arms up in frustration.
He clicks his tongue. “First, we’re going to find a river. We both need a
goddamn bath.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 65
Arthur

My eyes open as someone shoulders their way into the room. I’m slumped
against a wall. The pain in my back is a dull roar. I fight through it, grip
Excalibur at my side, and lift the sword to defend myself.
Percival limps in with his arm slung around Kay’s shoulder, who’s also
limping badly. The angel-faced knight looks worse for wear, one eye swollen
shut, and a nasty yellow-purple bruise across half his face. Kay is in better
condition, yet I haven’t seen him struggling to walk this badly in ages. He
grimaces with every step.
“Thank Avalon,” Percival groans as he steps to me. “You’re alive.”
“Any sign of the others?” I rasp.
Kay helps me up, and we both wince like elderly misers with bad backs. It’s
pathetic. I try not to focus on the pulse of anguish in my back as he lifts me to
my feet.
The chaos of battle outside has lessened from when I stepped into this
room, back when the madness surrounded me on every side. It’s as if the
battle has moved elsewhere. Or else the rebels have given up.
If that’s the case, we don’t have much time.
“No,” Kay says. “I saw you trudge through the ballroom and come this
way. Took us a while to find you.”
“What of Guinevere?” I beg. Adrenaline powers through me, willing me
forward.
Their faces sink.
“I don’t know, my liege,” Percy murmurs. “I saw someone pulling her out
of the ballroom when the clamor started. I didn’t see who it was. Hopefully an
ally.”
We can’t bank our futures on hope. That never works.
“We’ve failed her again,” Kay says grimly.
 We make our way into an empty corridor. The same hall I originally
planned to cut across before being met by Morgan-turned-Guinevere and her
cruel dagger. Bodies line the floor. A few of them wriggle and struggle to
crawl toward more populated areas, no doubt to seek aid.
Sadly, we don’t have time to help them. We need to find our girl and get the
fuck out of here. My biggest fear is she’s in the hands of Morgan and
Mordred, and we may never see her again, or she may be used as a tool to stop
our attack on Camelot.
“The prison basement,” I grunt, and the three of us stagger in that
direction. “We need to get out the back exit.”
We move together. My two knights are wielding swords from fallen soldiers.
We definitely make a sight—a trio of able-bodied warriors looking decidedly
unable-bodied. Limping along, all of us sporting injuries we’re trying to hide
from each other.
For Percival, I fear the internal battering his body sustained from whatever
beating he took. He looks like he’s been trampled on. I suspect that’s exactly
what happened if he was caught in the initial turmoil and tidal wave of
panicked guests fleeing the theater.
For Kay, I fear his leg might never recover. That he may live his life
crippled.
For me, well, I wonder if I’m going to bleed out from Morgan’s kiss of
death during our embrace.
“What happened to you?” I ask Kay as we gingerly make our way toward
the doors leading down to the prison. The guards here are dead. There’s no
one to give us any problems.
“Jumped off the second story balcony when I saw our little lamb was in
danger,” he grunts. “Too many bodies in the way for me to get to her,
though.”
“You what?”
He scratches his head and readjusts Percival’s weight, grabbing the slender
knight’s arm across his shoulder. “Not my greatest idea. I wasn’t thinking,
brother.” A wistful smile crosses his face. “I never do in situations like these.”
“Usually it works out.”
“Not this time.”
The prison chambers are empty and quiet. They lift the swords they’ve
taken from fallen soldiers, just in case. Even in our sorry state, I figure we can
fend off a few surprises.
The cells are mostly empty. Then we cross a room where the gate is open,
and I curse under my breath.
We hurry into the room and surround Gawain, who is on his side.
“Little knight,” Kay says. He slaps him across the face. “Wake up.”
Gawain’s eyes flutter open. “Fuck,” he groans. His eyes look distant for a
moment before taking us in. “It’s you.”
We help him up to his feet. He wobbles, shaking his head to clear it, and
struggles to stay upright while gathering himself.
“What happened in here?” I ask.
Gawain’s eyes search the empty room. “Mordred was in here,” he says
slowly, as if just remembering. “He could have killed me while I was out.”
I grunt. That means nothing to me. Not now. Not after Guinevere’s been
taken from us again.
Gawain’s pale face loses all remaining color. “So was Lancelot. And Guin.
And—” He points to the other side of a table, where legs and boots are
sticking out, barely visible.
Fear ripples through me as I round the table as quickly as I can. “Fuck.”
It’s Sir Lamorak, dead in a pool of his own blood. We stand over his body,
surveying him. He was stabbed through the back—a coward’s death. I wonder
if he was defending Guinevere’s honor, or . . .
“You said Lancelot was in here?” My voice is grim.
Gawain nods. “In his demon form. He had Mordred against the wall, ready
to kill him. I . . . couldn’t let him. I’m sorry, Arthur. Lamorak was already dead
at his feet.”
My head pounds with confusion and anger. “Then what happened?”
Gawain opens his mouth. He closes it when a faraway expression steals his
focus. “I don’t recall.”
“Can we discuss this on the way out?” Kay grumbles. “We can’t let anyone
find out we’re down here, or our revolution will be very short-lived.”
Together, the four of us help each other out of the cell and down the hall
toward the back exit and the cave system.
“I remember, Arthur,” Gawain says once we make it to the first weaving
corridor of the caves. His reedy tone is alarming. “Lancelot took Guinevere.”

† † †
Two hours later, we exit through the mountain cave and round the shadows to
make our way into Camelot City. We refuse to leave until we know more about
Guin.
We decide there’s a chance she managed to escape and make her way back
into the city. She would have avoided the city gates alone, because she knows
better than to trust any guards we don’t know.
Our trek brings us through the city. We make slow progress to stay hidden.
Guards and foot soldiers are scouring the streets, looking for any signs of
rebels.
It’s reminiscent of the first time we escaped Camelot, after I was
overthrown. I hate feeling so helpless in my own kingdom. Back then,
Lamorak helped us escape, and then he assisted us in getting into the city and
out of it once we learned Guinevere was not here.
Sadness fills me. Lam is dead. Struck down like a dog, left in a prison cell to
rot. He was the knight who raised the banner of my rebellion in taverns and
secret meetings across this kingdom while we’ve been away building our army.
He spoke my good name, turning people to our side.
Sir Lamorak might also be the reason the insurrection went awry in the
castle.
It’s a conflicting sort of sadness I feel. On one hand, I’ve lost a brother. On
the other, the questions leading up to his death are numerous.
We feel our way to the poor district, and when we turn the corner of a
street, Gawain lets out a breath of despair.
The door of his parents’ lodge has been busted in. He hurries as quickly as
his battered body will take him, and the rest of us are not far behind.
Inside, the cabin is a mess. Tables and chairs are thrown about, shelves and
pottery smashed over the floor. The place has been ransacked.
Gawain’s foster parents are nowhere to be found.
I sense the growing aura of rage around him. His hands curl into fists. His
knees nearly buckle under the weight of his righteous indignation. “I’ve led
them to their deaths bringing them here. It was a fool’s errand to bring them
to this hellhole.”
“This hellhole is still your home, Gawain,” I grunt.
“Hey,” Percival says from the other side of the main room—the same
room we slept in peacefully last night. He lifts something from the one chair
that hasn’t been knocked over. It’s a folded piece of parchment.
Gawain closes the gap and snatches the paper from Percival, opening it. As
his eyes move with the lines of the letter, his lips fold into an angry line, and
the sadness reaches his eyes.
“What does it say, brother?” I ask.
“Morgan le Fay has my parents hostage. She’s using them to try and
leverage her position over me, to convince me to bring the Leudonian army to
her side. She says, ‘Given this turn of events, nephew, I hope you’ll come to
your senses and do what’s right for your family.’”
“Fucking cunt,” Kay murmurs.
I feel for Gawain. He’s the King of Leudonia. My right-hand man for so
long after Lancelot left the kingdom—which he has a knack of doing, it would
appear.
I can’t control Gawain’s mind. Not like Morgan is trying to do with her
conniving ways. My bitch of a sister is always one step ahead of us . . . but to
use these innocent, elderly folk for her devious schemes? She’s reached new
levels of desperation and depravity.
I need to put a stop to her, yet I don’t know how. She’s perhaps the most
powerful sorceress in the land, now that Merlin is trapped in a boy’s body. I
don’t know what that does to his capabilities.
If Gawain feels it necessary to turn against us, to command his troops to
fight on behalf of Morgan and Mordred, to keep his foster parents alive,
there’s not much I can do to stop him. If I’m going to stop him, I should do it now.
Perhaps I can control his army after we leave, if they don’t know what I’ve done—
I shake my head of the vile thought. Sir Gawain is my brother-in-arms. My
nephew, more like a son to me than anyone else. I would never turn on him.
Could never bring myself to kill him, even for the benefit of the kingdom.
If he feels forced to turn against us, I simply hope I don’t see him on the
battlefield.
“What will you do, Gawain?” I ask simply.
Dread sets into his face. For a moment, his eyes dart around at us, as if he’s
seeing us as enemies or potential adversaries for the first time.
Then his cheeks hollow, his chin squares, and he firms his lips. “I am a
Knight of the Round Table, King Arthur. My loyalty to you will never be
questioned.”
I lock eyes with him and dip my chin. “Very well.”
 A sad smile breaks across his face and he averts his gaze, lifting the note to
flap it next to his face. “It’s funny.”
“What is?”
“I spoke to Mordred in the ballroom. I told him I didn’t fight out of loyalty
to Camelot or even you, Arthur. I told him I fought out of loyalty to
Guinevere.”
“And?”
He chuckles humorlessly. “Now I’m realizing what bullshit that is. There is
no Guinevere without King Arthur, just as there is no King Arthur without
Guinevere. Together, we make Camelot what it is. We can’t rely on rebels or
whores to chart the future of our kingdom. The Knights of the Round Table
must be the ones to save Camelot.”
“Agreed,” I say, fighting back emotion. “I appreciate your words. But let’s
say it straight and amend your statement: There is no Round Table without
Guinevere. Not anymore. We can’t survive without her.”
“Then let’s find our fucking girl,” Kay growls.
“The one thing we have going for us is she was last seen with Lancelot,”
Percival adds, nodding to Gawain.
Gawain snarls, shaking his head. “Is that a good thing, sunflower? I don’t
trust Lancelot. You know that. And now, after trying to slaughter my brother,
and what he did to Lamorak, and whatever he’s done with Guin . . . I want to
kill him more than ever.”
I go to him, brace his shoulder, squeezing tight. “Resist the urge, Gawain.
We will get to the bottom of this.”
“Not if you all keep prattling on about loyalty and honor and whatever
ridiculous notions you come up with. Why don’t you just whip your cocks out
and get on your knees for each other? It will get the job done faster.”
Our eyes swerve to the open door of the cabin, where a large, voluptuous
silhouette leans against the frame.
Lady Freya shakes her head. “Can’t rely on whores to save your kingdom,
eh, Sir Gawain?”
Gawain’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.
I say, “How did you find us?”
Freya scoffs and pushes off the frame of the door, walking through the
archway into the room. At least she’s wearing clothes now—a loose-fitting
dress tied high on her waist. “It wasn’t difficult to follow you after our meeting
last night, King Arthur. And if you’re wondering how your people were taken,
Sir Gawain . . . if it wasn’t hard for me to follow you, it wasn’t hard for others,
either. You were distracted by your tasks.”
“Dammit,” I growl, punching a chair.
“Don’t take it out on the chair, my king,” Freya says with a wry smile. The
smile falters. “I believe the rebellion has been compromised. The attack was
sprung too early tonight. Whoever else followed you from the tailor shop here
last night clearly went and told your enemies. We can’t trust our secrets with
anyone.”
“We’ve never been able to,” Kay murmurs. “We just got lazy with it, and
now it’s biting us in the ass.”
“Just so, Sir Kay.” She heads for the door, waving us on. “Come on, you
dour bunch. Let’s help you get out of the city unscathed.” She looks us up and
down, unimpressed. “Well, no more scathed than you already are.”

† † †

As the moon begins to vanish behind the hills, showing the soft gray glow of
morning, we creep across the plains and into the living forest past Camelot’s
border.
Lady Freya made good on her word, helping us weave through streets and
the eastern gate unmolested. When she lets us off near the edge of the trees
where our army is camped beyond, she shoulders me.
I raise my brow at her. “Thank you, Lady Freya. Your assistance will not go
unrecognized.”
“Least I could do, my king,” she says, giving me a look up and down. If left
to her own devices, it’s clear she wants to accept my thanks in other, lewder
ways where words are unnecessary. “Consider the favor returned.”
I nod gruffly. She wouldn’t be alive had I not been spying through that
doorway tonight.
“The rebellion was wounded but not routed, sire. Many escaped the castle.
I must go back to them.”
“Yes, of course. I’m relinquishing sole control of the rebellion into your
capable hands. If it wasn’t already obvious, Lady Freya, I consider you the
commander of the resistance inside the city.”
 She snorts, again unimpressed—I’m assuming at the title I’ve given her. As
a woman of her stature and position, who has been disregarded as a simple
whore her entire life, status and titles really mean nothing to her.
“I already was the commander, Arthur. Though it’s nice to hear it from
your sinfully delicious lips.” She winks at me before turning away. “We’ll be
licking our wounds in the city. But we await your orders, my king.”
With that, she disappears back the way she came.
My knights and I push into the forest, feeling safer surrounded by trees and
the stuffy embrace of the woods. When we reach the first line of guards
stationed on watch, they step aside with appalled looks at seeing our sorry
state. When we left our army, we felt energized and ready to make a difference.
Now we look defeated, lost. As much as I want to push aside that idea, it’s
evident on our faces.
They say nothing, allowing us to pass.
I grunt, staying wordless. There’s nothing to say. We’ve failed, and for the
thousandth time, we have to, erm, lick our wounds, as Freya said, and try again.
Except this time, it will be all-out war.
We went to try and stop the bloodshed, because that’s what Guinevere
wanted. Now, she’s missing again, and I feel more humiliated and ashamed
than ever. Also angrier.
The time for peace talks are over.
“Spirits be good to us,” Percival mutters as we make our way into the
largest clearing of the forest, where the most tents and campfires are set up.
Soldiers are just starting to wake for the morning.
I glance over at Percival, furrowing my brow. “What?”
He nudges his chin in the distance. I follow his gaze—
To where Guinevere and a very naked Sir Lancelot are slapping tree limbs
aside and stepping into the clearing from the opposite direction.
My heart soars, a deluge of gratitude pouring out—
And it sinks as I hear the familiar hiss of metal being pulled from a leather
scabbard.
I glance over to see Gawain staring pure death at Lancelot, drawing his
sword.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 66
Guinevere

I put myself between Gawain and Lancelot before things can get too dire.
“No! Stop it, you two!” I demand.
Kay holds back a feral, snarling Gawain, whose sword is drawn. Lancelot,
well, unless he wants to sword fight with his cock, is at a definite disadvantage.
Arthur’s eyes don’t leave me. When our gazes meet, a trill of warmth settles
in my belly, where my wound once bled. All my guys are alive. They look like
shit, but so do I. We made it out of that horrific event, and that has to count
for something.
I give the king a shy smile.
“That bastard tried to kill the last brother I have!” Gawain yells. Soldiers are
starting to poke their heads out of their tents at the commotion. “He killed
Lamorak and stole Guin from us, again. This cannot stand!”
“Mordred has been our enemy for months, Gawain,” Arthur says lowly,
finally looking away from me so he can try to defuse the situation. “Nothing
has changed.”
“Everything has changed. You saw what I saw, Arthur. Mordred could have
killed me while I was unconscious in that jail cell. He didn’t. He could have
swarmed us with troops when we first stepped into the castle. He didn’t.”
“Lancelot didn’t kill Lamorak, Gawain,” I cry out, my hands remaining high
between the two knights. “Mordred did, and—”
“And now my parents have been fucking taken,” Gawain continues,
streaming right past my comments. Then his tongue stops flapping and his
gaze drifts to me. Everyone’s does.
“Wait, what?” Arthur asks for them.
I nod sadly. “It was Lamorak who tried to kill me. I don’t know why.
Mordred came in and slew him seconds before he could do the same to me.”
 Lancelot says, “I was just trying to protect our girl, Gawain. I’m . . . sorry.”
He bows his head, as if asking for atonement. “I’m not sorry I left with her,
though. I came into that situation as confused as anyone. It was the only thing
I could think to do in my monstrous state with Mordred so close to Guin, and
you attacking me.”
“It’s all a huge misunderstanding,” I announce, and slowly lower my palms.
“Now, what is this about your parents being taken?”
Gawain growls under his breath. “I still don’t trust him.” He shakes his
head, runs a hand over his beleaguered face. Eventually, he manages to put his
sword away.
“We were followed last night to his parent’s dwelling, little one,” Arthur
explains. “Morgan took them, presumably after the madness in the castle.”
“Oh, God.” I clutch at my neck as my stomach sinks. “Gawain, I’m so
sorry.”
He says nothing.
When my eyes meet with Arthur’s this time, there’s an odd expression there
I haven’t seen before. It’s not the same smoldering expression I’ve gotten used
to from the King of Camelot.
It’s a question. A realization, perhaps.
And just like I told Mordred before we were violently interrupted, I know I
have to tell Arthur the truth now. If he hasn’t learned it already.
“Arthur, we need to talk.” I study the foot soldiers watching us. We’ve made
a spectacle. Tristan and Iseult are off in the corner of the clearing, arms
wrapped around each other, watching us argue like children.
“Yes, I suspect we do.” His voice is the low rumble of an earthquake.
We begin to walk away to a more private area of the forest, and the other
knights follow us—Lancelot joining once he finds some clothes to slip on.
Over my shoulder, I say, “This might be best for your ears only, my king.”
He shakes his head. “We’re beyond that, little one. Whatever you have to
say, the other knights can hear. No more secrets.”
“Right.” I gulp. “No more secrets.”
Once we’re secluded, we take positions around a tree stump and a few thick
bushes. Arthur stands with his arms crossed. The others linger on the
peripheries. Gawain and Lancelot are furthest apart, which is fair since
tensions are running high.
 I’m hoping I can dissuade their imminent fight with what I have to say.
There are things that are so much more important than petty squabbles
between us. We need to act as a team, once and for all, and that starts with me
finally telling King Arthur what Merlin told me.
Even though I promised Merlin I wouldn’t spill the secrets. I can’t do it
anymore, Old One. They’re ripping me apart, and Arthur deserves this knowledge, just like
Mordred did.
If it changes the prophecy . . . so be it. Maybe that’s the first step to twisting a new fate
for ourselves. One that we control, rather than one that controls us.
“I’ll start,” Arthur says. “And I apologize if I pass out. I’ve been stabbed.”
My heart launches to my throat. “Fuck. So have I.”
“What?” He takes a step toward me. “Who hurt—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “Lamorak did. Lancelot healed me. Long
story. Turns out demon blood is good for flesh wounds. Maybe he can help
you, too, if you ask nicely. Maybe he can help all of you.”
Their eyes scatter toward Lancelot, who decides now is the best time to
stop paying attention. He’s glancing up at the trees absentmindedly.
I try to refocus the conversation. “What happened in the castle, Arthur?”
His tongue prods the inside of his cheek. He mulls over his next words
carefully. Then he sighs and speaks like a soldier giving a debriefing. “I went
searching for you in the tumult. When I went into a room, I found you, but it
wasn’t you. It was Morgan, looking like you, like she had done with Queen
Anna.” He raises his hand to stop my questions. “That’s not the important
part. The important part is what I felt after all that. When I looked into her
eyes.”
I blink. Shit. He already knows.
“Seeing Morgan in that state, with your face, seemed to jar loose a memory
of mine. A forgotten vision, perhaps. I’m wondering if Merlin has something
to do—”
“He does,” I interject. “What did you see?”
His brow twists. “It’s confusing. I’m not certain. I think I saw . . . us? Ages
ago, though we’ve known each other for mere months.”
A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard over it. “I can explain,” I say in
a thin voice. It’s suddenly so hard to speak, like my throat is rebelling against
me, constricting when I need it to open.
“Breathe, Guin,” he says. “Take your time.”
 The words come out in a flurry, even as my eyes fill with unshed tears.
There’s no coming back from this.
“I’m not the first Guinevere you’ve loved, Arthur!”
Everyone falls silent. Even the birds in the trees above us. The quietness is
eerie and ominous, making me more nervous than ever. My hands tremble, so
I lace my fingers together and fidget in front of my belly.
Arthur’s jaw muscles work, his teeth grinding. His lips fold, and I worry he’s
about to unload on me for keeping such a crazy secret from him, even if it
makes no sense. I know he’s going to ask follow-up questions, and I need to
have the courage to tell him everything.
Then he speaks, his voice rich and caring. “You may not be the first
Guinevere I’ve loved, my Ever Queen, but you will be the last. I’d sooner die
and drift to the shores of Avalon than ever be with another woman. There will
never be another as perfect as my fiery, frustrating, beautiful, bullheaded little
girl.”
My chin trembles. A wave of heady emotions power through me.
Everything he said is too perfect. I don’t deserve it. He doesn’t understand what
I’m saying, yet he knows just how to respond.
I gulp again. God, why is my throat so dry? Why is it so hard to tear my
eyes away from him when he looks at me like that, with such adoration and
love?
Finally, not sure what to say, I land on: “Funny you should mention dying
and drifting to the shores of Avalon, my king . . .”

† † †

For the next hour, I tell the knights everything I know. Everything Merlin has
showed me through his dreamspoken visions. It starts with the cycle, with my
bloodline, the generations of Guineveres who have passed through Logres
and fled. With the memories of every Guinevere stolen from my knights
because of the cycle, beginning with the first Guinevere using the Holy Grail
to rip through space and time.
I even mention King Leodegrance, and my belief that he might be the
original Guinevere’s father, which may explain the striking familiarity he felt
when he first saw me.
 I don’t tell the story in a chronological way. In true ADHD fashion, my
details are haphazard and all over the place. I’m not sure the best way to tell
this. This is new and confusing to me, just like it clearly is to them, based on
their raised brows.
I want to save the most important and dire shit for last.
Once I explain the cycle, and the time loop, and how the era always resets
once a new Guinevere breaks into this world, I tell them how Merlin informed
me I’m the last one who can fulfill the prophecy. I know it’s time to expand on
what the prophecy entails, which means discussing the curse. The Rot. The
spell cast by Morgan le Fay to ruin everything Arthur holds dear.
Their attention is rapt, never leaving my face, even as I start pacing like a
madwoman. The knights go from standing to sitting with their elbows on their
knees, while I hold court. The sun is bright in the sky by the time I reach the
closing arguments of the story.
I know it’s hard to believe. A tough pill to swallow. I mean, how are you
supposed to respond when you learn you aren’t in control of your own life?
That my bloodline is the reason you keep playing through these epic, terrible
events over and over again? That if it wasn’t for the original Guinevere causing
the cycle, these guys would be long dead and the Dark Ages would probably
be over, or at least in a much different state than it’s in now. Time would have
continued in a linear fashion, rather than resetting.
It makes everything seem pointless. Everything Arthur and the others are
doing. I understand that. Once I start speaking it aloud, as the words flow, my
confidence builds.
Then it wanes when I lock eyes with Arthur, slowing my pacing and fixing
him with a pained expression. “Which brings me to Morded, my love.”
Lines wrinkle his forehead.
I steel myself. “Mordred is Morgan le Fay’s foil to you, Arthur. He is . . .
your son. He’s also the source of the Rot—the curse Morgan cast to bring you
down. With both of you alive, the curse will blossom and take over Logres.
Morgan will win. With both of you dead, with the male Pendragon bloodline
ceasing to exist, so will the curse. Either way, Morgan wins.”
He puts his chin in his hand, staring at the ground. No doubt trying to
wrap his mind around this heady shit. If I was just a random stranger, I
wouldn’t trust me either. I sound batshit crazy, and would definitely deserve a
nice kindle-and-fire bath as a witch.
 But it’s me. The person these guys trust more than anyone else.
Arthur’s face lifts. He focuses on a specific part of what I just said.
“Mordred is my son, you say. Through whom?”
I chew my lip. Wince. “Through Morgan, Arthur. I’m so sorry.” Before he
can leap up in outrage, and before the gasps have even left the mouths of the
other knights, I add, “That is what your memory was. Merlin showed me that
specific moment in time—the catalyst to all this—once he uncovered it from
your mind. The memory Morgan jarred loose is the night Mordred Pendragon
was conceived, through Morgan’s trickery and shape-shifting. She pretended to
be me so she could bed you. She did it so she could have a Pendragon of her
own, and eventually announce his status to the world so she has a fallback plan
to steal your crown. At least that’s my assumption.”
I’ve never seen Arthur’s eyes so wide. Never seen him so speechless and
caught off-guard. However, unlike when I told Mordred, Arthur doesn’t deny
it. There’s no reason to. He doesn’t wallow in possibilities or variables. How
could I possibly make all this up? Why would I do it—to what end?
King Arthur knows this is the truth, as easily as he knows he loves me and
cherishes me. And he knows I’ll stand by him, no matter the outcome of this
war.
I had my chance to leave when I found this out.
I’m not fucking going anywhere now.
“So, do you see?” I ask. No, plead. I’m moving toward him, kneeling before
the king so I can put my hands on his knees. So I can look up at his face and
see what’s swirling around in those cosmic gray orbs of his. My words tumble
out of me, begging and cracking with every other syllable.
“Please don’t be angry with me. I held this back because the prophecy says
you both must die. I can’t let that happen. I want to change the prophecy. There
has to be a way to end the curse without it, because I wouldn’t be able to live if
you died, Arthur. I worry this fateful war we have brewing is the dreaded
Battle of Camlann Merlin warned me about. It’s why I can’t have you dueling
Mordred. Like Gawain said, he is not the enemy. Morgan le Fay is. She’s always
been the powerful person pulling the strings from the shadows, as you thought
from the beginning during the Avalon Redeemed rebellion.”
After I’m done word-vomiting all over Arthur, my heart races with a
million emotions: regret, fear, love, agony.
 He takes my hands. Gently makes circles over my knuckles. Stares down at
my imploring face. His soft smile fades into something like immense sorrow.
Regret.
Anxiety claws through me.
“Angry at you, Guin? Never. I believe you, little one. All of it. It’s a wild
tale, but, somehow, it makes sense.”
Hope edges the anxiety. “Oh, thank God, Arthur. Then—”
He sighs and stands, and my hands fall to my sides. Steel replaces the gentle
expression from moments ago. “However, the battle must go on,” he
announces, and the air leaves my lungs—every speck of hope vanishing from
my heart. “As sad as it makes me, I must try to fight this prophecy the Lady of
the Lake spoke of, and live. I want to live, Guin. You must believe that. I don’t
intend to torture you like this. For the sake of my people, though, and you, I
must be willing to sacrifice myself to end this.”
I shake my head fervently. I hardly feel the tears streaming down my numb
cheeks when I jump to my feet. “No, please! Arthur, you can’t.”
He tilts my chin, wrenching a sob from my lips. “Don’t cry, little one. I
know it’s hard to understand—”
“It’s impossible to understand!” I cry. My immense pain at what he’s saying
has abruptly morphed into unmitigated fury. The wrath of a woman scorned,
like he’s making this decision to me, rather than out of the greater good.
“Guinevere.” He takes my head into his chest, and I let loose with ugly
cries, my body shaking. His hands go through my hair, trying to console me,
but much like his decision, it’s impossible.
I want to ask him why he’s doing this to me. Selfishly, I know he’s not
thinking of the love we share with each other, or else he’d surely reconsider.
“Guin,” he says softly, “don’t you see? If Mordred is my son, he has a
legitimate claim to the throne of Camelot. Once that truth comes out, he will
no longer be considered a usurper. This isn’t about me losing the kingdom, or
you—as searing and painful as that is. It’s about stopping Morgan le Fay from
destroying this continent. It’s about rescuing Camelot. That’s always been my
mission. These words you’ve told me, which I’m happy you’ve told me, change
nothing in that respect. I can’t change the past, or the cycle, or the curse. All I
can do is try to stop it, and that means stopping my son and my sister in their
tracks, before they take over completely.”
 Once he’s done with his spiel—his rationale for carrying out this medieval,
bloodthirsty quest of redemption and “making things right”—a horrible
feeling twists around my heart. It drags me down, destroying my confidence.
He isn’t doing this to me. No. I have caused this.
What I thought was a warning, and would stay Arthur’s hand from killing
his son, has backfired. It has only reignited his need to kill Mordred before
claims of his legitimacy can get out in the open.
I’ve knocked over the dominoes and the last one is about to fall into place.
How could I be so stupid and naïve?
Inadvertently, I realize, I’ve brought the end of the Pendragon bloodline to
the brink. I’ve brought about the final battle between Mordred and Arthur.
Just like Merlin said I had to do to fulfill the prophecy.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 67
Guinevere

We spend the next few days recuperating from the events at Castle Camelot.
Every one of us has taken some hits.
Percival heals the fastest, to where his swollen eye and bruised body is a
mangle of yellow contusions after a couple days. It’s sad seeing my perfect,
golden-haired angel so mucked up.
We’re not sure if Kay will ever be able to walk the same again. It’s so silly
how a kneejerk reaction like jumping from a balcony can impact the rest of
your life. And he wasn’t even drunk. Just angry. Still, he’s told us he’s fine, and
he’s ready to fight.
Gawain refuses help from Lancelot—not that I’m sure Lance could even
aid him. He gets headaches for the next two days, and I worry he got a
concussion from slamming against a wall, but he also assures us he’s fine.
Look at my macho-ass men, promising me the world and promising they’re
a-okay to carry on.
Lancelot manages to heal Arthur’s stab wound, much to the chagrin of our
king. I’m not sure he’s ever been so close to the knight in his demon form, and
it’s comical seeing the suspicion and fear Arthur tries to hide from his face
when Lance touches his dark blood to Arthur’s back.
Seeing Arthur shirtless, his broad, stacked-with-muscle body on full display,
makes the whole awkward exchange worth it.
Lancelot’s power is a revelation. Here I thought demons were pure
instruments of death, as he’s showcased on numerous occasions. It turns out
there’s more than meets the eye, and he’s just become an even more powerful
weapon. We can’t afford to lose him.
I ask him about his power—if there’s anything else he can do that I don’t
know about. It would be nice to know going into this upcoming battle.
He says, “No, I think that covers it,” with a wry smirk.
 “It’s a breakthrough. Does it only heal, uh, flesh wounds?”
“I can’t fix broken bones or resurrect anyone from the dead. Otherwise I
would have used it on Sir Dagonet when I had the chance. So, to answer your
question, yes—my blood has to touch the blood of whoever I’m healing,
which is typically from a stabbing or slashing wound.”
My nose screws up. “In my world, that would alert all sorts of safety
violations. It would probably lead to infection and death.”
“Guess it’s nice I exist in this world and not yours then, eh, fireheart?”
I chuckle. He hands me a piece of bread, and we eat companionably
underneath the shade of a tree, sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.
“How long have you known about that power?” I ask, chomping.
“For as long as I’ve known about my demonic heritage.”
“How long have you known that?”
He glances over at me. “A long time, lass.”
I don’t want to pry, but I do it anyway, because I’m too damned curious.
“Do you know, uh, where that bloodline comes from?”
His lips curve at the corner in another smirk. The perfect tilt makes me
want to lick his face like he did to me the other night. “Though no one has
told me explicitly, I believe I’ve figured it out through deduction.”
I look away to an interesting bug on the ground next to me. “So you don’t
think King Ban is your father, then?”
He laughs, then drapes an arm over my shoulder and pulls me close. “Oh,
fireheart, I used to think you were adept at hiding secrets. Now it’s clear I just
didn’t know what to look for. You’re horrible at it. Yes, I know King Ban is not
my real father.”
I smile, pressing my temple against his shoulder.
“I also suspect, based on your plethora of questions and the trepidation on
your face, you know the truth, too.”
I nod. I’m not going to say it, because what if he’s wrong?
“My father is Merlin,” he murmurs.
I let out a deep sigh of relief. My tense shoulders sag. I’m glad he knows.
It’s one less secret I need to keep to myself, now that I’m in the business of
letting it all out in the open.
“There aren’t too many people in this world who hail from demonic blood.
The Old One is reported to be one of them. Like many others, I always
thought it was a myth. Shows how much I knew. It’s best not to underestimate
him, even if he looks like a bratty child right now.”
I snicker. “What about your mother?” I press. “Do you know who she is?”
He glances over. Shakes his head.
“Do you want to know?” Because I can tell you how I saw Merlin and the Lady of
the Lake conversing in secret, deciding which human kingdom to send you to. It’s the scandal
of the era!
The mirth dances in his eyes. He gives another terse shake of his head. “I
think I’ll let you hold onto that one.”
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. What good would it do for Lancelot to
know who his mother is, when it appears she abandoned him for his entire
life? It would only give him another person to loathe, and I think that list is
completely full. His idea of “I’m better off not knowing” is surprisingly wise
when I think of it in those terms. It’s also incredibly sad.
I kiss his cheek and lean against him. We watch as soldiers move from tent
to tent, station to station, chopping wood to create defensive barriers, building
the catapults and siege weapons, and generally getting ready for war.
“Do you regret what we did the other night?” he asks abruptly.
“No.” It’s the truth.
“Good. Neither do I.”
My body shakes with a small laugh. It starts a chain reaction where his
shoulders start rumbling, and then we’re both chuckling. I’m glad he’s not
apologizing for it. I hope that version of Sir Lancelot is gone.
“It was pretty fucking crazy though, right?” I shoot.
“Absolutely unhinged, fireheart.”
“I didn’t think I’d get to find time in my busy schedule of overthrowing a
king and starting a rebellion. Break into a castle at sundown, dance the night
away, join a riot, avoid death, and, oh yeah, fuck a demon before bed. Just for
good measure.”
“All in a day’s work.”
We both laugh louder, which draws a couple scowls from the soldiers
working hard. I lift my hands for peace, mouthing apologies to the men and
women.
“I thought I would break you in two,” he says.
“Turns out I’m more pliable than we thought, huh?”
He snorts. “Yes. What a way to find that out.”
 Peaceful silence falls over us as our chuckling dies down. Then he says,
“Should we tell the others?”
Now it’s my turn to snort incredulously. “I think it’ll be okay if we hold
onto that one, too, love.”

† † †

We don’t just lounge around and discuss the finer points of demon-fucking
for the few days following the ballroom debacle. We also wait for the armies to
mobilize. Things get tenser as the days pass, and our scouts report Mordred is
nearly ready for battle, too.
If nothing else, the failed rebellion inside the castle has forced him outside
Camelot’s walls. He will fight us in the field, which I worry will only lead to
more bloodshed.
As Arthur poignantly said, “How can he possibly fight what’s in front of
him when he fears a dagger in the back?”
It’s a good point. The rebellion ruffled his feathers. More importantly, I
think it ruffled Morgan’s. I hate that she has Gawain by the balls. If there was
only something I could do about his parents’ captivity, obviously I would.
My surly dark knight and my wistful demon knight don’t speak to each
other a single time during our momentary respite from war. For Lancelot, he
figures it’s best to leave well enough alone. For Gawain, he doesn’t trust
Lancelot.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get them to see eye to eye. It’s not
something I can worry about right now.
On the third day following the ball, King Bagdemagus and King
Leodegrance come to our main camp from opposite directions—west and
east, respectively.
Arthur greets the old kings and asks what their report is.
“West wing is secure,” Badgemagus tells him. “With my heavy cavalry from
Gorre, and the Hibernian infantry with Tristan and Iseult’s Pengwern troops,
we are ready for a pitched battle.”
“Same on the east wing,” King Leodegrance says. “King Percival and I have
combined our forces of Listenoise and Cameliard. Mostly footmen and
archers, but they’re well-trained.”
 In our war tent, Arthur consults his map, setting the scene for the battle. I
watch from the corner as he takes command and is completely in his element.
There’s a reason he has the nickname Arthur the Terrible, and it’s not just
because of Mordred and Morgan’s propaganda.
“With the Leudonian fyrds and Sauvage soldiers as the vanguard of our
army, they will draw the most heat. We expect a bloody conflict in the front
lines, which is why the eastern and western wings will be paramount. Leo, you
and Percival will hide your regiment behind the raised hills of the Sarum
Plains.” He points on the map, then drags his finger in a curve. “You’ll
position a mile and a half outside our view, so Mordred can’t see you either.
Our shield wall will be compact in the front, so we might get ourselves
surrounded. That is by design. It’s a dangerous gambit, but we have fewer
numbers, so we need to be cleverer than them. On my signal, when our front
line curves inward, and the enemy shows you their backs, I want the eastern
wing to smash into them.” He punches into his palm for emphasis.
“A fine strategy, King Arthur,” Leodegrance says.
“I will command the archers,” Percival guarantees.
There’s no one I’d rather have leading the archers than the best one in the
land. He will make the most of their capabilities.
“As for the west,” Arthur says, turning to King Bagdemagus, “you will stay
in view of the enemy without initially striking. We want to keep them jittery,
like the rebellion is doing inside the city with their targeted attacks. If we are
to win this war, we have to keep them guessing. Scare them with your battle
steeds stamping the ground. When the battle turns to one side and King Leo
sandwiches their right flank, I suspect reinforcements from their left will have
to come to aid them. That is when you will strike, Bag, to take out their
already-thin line.”
“Love it,” Bademagus grunts. “Hope Morgan is in that section, too, so I
can put an end to her.”
“Morgan le Fay won’t be in that section,” says a voice at the flap of the tall
tent.
Merlin walks in, and the kings glance at one another cautiously. I almost
suspect one of them to ask who let the child into the war room—that this is
no place for boys.
No one disrespects Merlin anymore, though. Not when everyone’s lives are
at stake and he’s still the strongest single force we have on our side, with the
exception of Lancelot in his demon form, perhaps.
Lancelot also can’t stay shifted forever. He tires, and when that happens,
he’s just another knight. I mean, he’s just another the-best-knight-in-Camelot, but
still. I can only imagine the havoc he will wreak flying across the sky with his
black wings, scaring everyone on the ground.
Merlin taps the map with his staff. “Morgan won’t be in any of the sections
of the army. She will be waiting to see how the battle goes, likely from the
safety of Camelot’s ramparts. This battle will be visible from the walls of the
city, after all.”
Arthur nods. “We can trust you to take care of her, then, Old One?”
Merlin bows deeply. “Yes, boy. You can count on me to keep her
occupied.”
He sounds confident, but I know there’s speculation and worry among our
ranks. No one is really sure how strong he is now that he’s in the body of a
fucking twelve-year-old. For all we know, that could greatly diminish his power,
at a time when Morgan le Fay, his former apprentice, seems on the cusp of her
max potential.
If she manages to get hold of me, and forces me to use the Holy Grail to
her benefit, I can only imagine with horrified fascination what she might be
able to accomplish. For all intents and purposes, if that happens, it will likely
signal the end of the war. We will lose.
Which is why I’ve been relegated to the back of the central army. Not the
very back, where she could appear from a freaking shadow like a gopher from a
hole and snag me away, but far enough away from the battle that I can’t get
captured.
I hate it. I also understand it. I don’t want to become more of a liability
than I already am.
“What about her ally, Queen Agnes of Sorestan?” Lancelot asks, stepping
up to the map. “She’s a powerful sorceress too.”
“She is,” Merlin says.
Lancelot stares down his nose at the boy wizard. “Can we honestly expect
you to take them both on?”
“No. Which is why I’m hoping you will aid me.”
He cuts his voice off on an “s” sound, and I know he meant to add “son”
to the end of that, but resisted.
 Father and son. Demon knight and Keeper of Memories. Grown-ass man
and ancient wizard who looks like he’s going to win first place at the school
science fair.
What’s not to love?
“Then it’s settled,” Arthur says once talk has died down. Everyone knows
their positions. We’ve gone over strategy for the past few days. There’s only so
much more we can talk about.
Before the meeting ends, however, he crosses his arms over his chest.
“Remember, friends. This is a contingency plan. If all goes well, and Mordred
accepts my challenge at the onset of the battle, our plans can be discarded. I
will fight him in lieu of our armies.”
“What if he kills you?” I blurt out, saying what everyone’s thinking. And
I’m not even talking about my own heartbreak of that possibility. When
Arthur scowls at me, I roll my wrist and continue. “If Mordred is victorious,
do you really expect Morgan le Fay to just stop the war and accept our
surrender? Will we truly give up? And if you win, do you suspect Morgan to
surrender?”
“No. On both those accounts. I suspect a fight might still take place.”
I toss my arms up. “Then what’s the point of even having—”
Merlin meets my eyes and silences me with his cherubic stare of death.
This duel has to happen, in his mind, and I’m pretty sure everyone here
accepts what the outcome has to look like.
Everyone except King Arthur, apparently.
“The point of the duel is to break their army’s morale.” His scowl deepens,
then flips up at the corner of his mouth. “Have faith in me, Ever Queen. I
won’t lose to Mordred.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 68
Guinevere

On the eve of the battle, Lancelot vanishes. Again. Because why not? What’s
better than a last-minute wild card to throw a wrench in the whole operation?
I palm my forehead when Arthur tells me. “Jesus Christ, the Long Ranger
has got to stop doing this.”
Kay laughs. “Lone Ranger. I like that.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, “I came up with it myself.”
Gawain is all business. “I’m telling you, this will not end if we win this war.
Lancelot can never be relied upon to—”
“Enough,” Arthur growls. “I grow weary of your constant bickering when
it comes to Lancelot. Give him time to prove himself.”
“He’s had time to prove himself, Arthur.”
The King of Camelot gives the King of Leudonia a healthy dose of side-
eye. “Maybe Lady Freya was right, and you two should just whip your cocks
out and compare. Get it over with.”
Kay laughs even louder, letting out one of his signature belly-rumbles.
“Compare what?” Gawain blusters, turning to me and nodding his chin in
my direction. “Our little lark has done all the comparing necessary. She can—”
“No. Nope. Nuh-uh.” I frantically wave my hands in the air. “I’m not
getting in the middle of your guys’ dick-measuring contest. You have to beat
him off yourself.” More snickering. “Oops, did I say beat him off? I mean, if you
want to keep beating around the bush then—”
“You’ve made your point, girl,” Gawain mumbles, shaking his head. His
cheeks are stained pink.
But I’m on a roll. “What’s the point of comparing, anyway? You’re both
switches. I would have never imagined it, but I’ve seen what Percy’s done to
you.” Might as well include others in my rampage. “And Lance? Riding his oversized
demon dick might have been a revelation, but—”
 “Riding his what?!” Gawain wails.
“—I’ve still gotten him on his knees multiple times.”
I smile sweetly at the dark-haired menace, whose eyes are like saucers. Shit,
everyone is bug-eyed from my admission. Did I really just say that?
“Sorry,” I murmur, scratching the back of my head. “I think I’m manic. I
don’t do well the night before a slaughter, y’know?”
Arthur wraps his arms around me. “It won’t be a slaughter, little one. Trust
we know what we’re doing. We’re good at this.”
“Oh, I trust you, my king. I just know our plans have a way of fleeing from
us and jumping headfirst into a burning building. That’s all.”

† † †

Deep into the night, when I’m most restless, I pop out of bed. Arthur is
staying with me because I don’t trust myself to keep it together.
He murmurs when I get up from bed, and I gently peel his big draped arm
off me. I poke my head outside my tent, greeted by the sounds of trilling
insects, the gentle noises of the forest, and the crackling of a nearby campfire
where soldiers are keeping watch.
I know tomorrow it will sound nothing like this. I inhale and accept I have
no control over my future. Not now, not after everything.
Arthur’s right about one thing: We’re good at this. And I don’t mean war.
He’s good at that. We are good at adapting when our plans invariably go awry.
I tiptoe five paces out of my tent, to the nearest one, and poke my head in.
Lancelot still hasn’t come home.

† † †

He does in the wee hours of morning, to dramatic effect.

I’m cranky and tired from lack of sleep. I assumed my knights would be,
too, but they all appear to have slept like babies when we exit our respective
tents and join around the morning breakfast fire.
Then we hear the whooshing overhead. Our heads crane on our necks.
Black wings beat the sky.
I let out a yelp of relief. “Finally!”
Lancelot touches down in the clearing, eliciting sharp cries of fear and
nervous jitters from the soldiers surrounding us.
 His back is to us, wings furling around him. We stand from the fire, waiting.
He goes to his knees, turns, and unfurls his wings to show us what he has.
Two little gray-haired people slide out of his burly arms, scurrying on the
ground with mismatched cries of laughter and tears. They’re each holding a
blackened sword, which looks hilarious in their weathered hands.
Lancelot must have forgotten his swords after shifting to steal me away
from the jail cell in Castle Camelot.
My heart thunders in my chest. I put my hands together in a prayer,
pressing my lips to my thumbs. “Oh my God.”
“Mother! Father!” Gawain exclaims, sprinting to them.
Gawain’s foster parents drop the swords and embrace him.
Lancelot trudges away, his clawed feet leaving huge prints which are easy to
follow. I chase him behind a tree, where he can hide and modestly transform
back into his human form. By the time I round the tree, the crackling of bone
and muscle and the grunting of pain that comes with every transformation is
already subsiding.
He’s naked before me, dusting himself off.
Goddamn is he a sight for sore eyes. I’ll never get used to the way his body
is so perfectly chiseled. Those scars lining him only add to his unreasonable
hotness, and that cock, well, I’ll never stop drooling over it.
Once I really take him in, I notice a few new nicks and slash wounds on his
body. None of them look too deep, but they’ll definitely add more scars to his
repertoire.
I run up to him and wrap him in a fierce hug, smashing my cheek against
his chest.
“Careful, fireheart,” he chuckles in my ear, running a hand through my hair.
His cock twitches against my middle, and I’m immediately aware of his
warning. “I don’t think there’s time for me to ravage you, and that’s exactly
what will happen if you drape yourself over me.”
“Right,” I cough, stepping back and framing my hair with my hand so I can
give myself something to do without gawking at him. “We have a war to
fight.”
Our eyes lock, and sizzle.
I smile. “You saved them, Lance.”
He returns my smile. “Scared them half to death, too. Imagine their
surprise when a demon burst into their jail cell and wrapped them in his arms.
Not the ball they expected.”
I throw my head back and laugh, then put my palm over my mouth so no
one past this tree will hear me. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“The mother started having fun once we were flying. I’ve never heard an
old woman wail in such appreciation before. Come on, let’s go see how they’re
doing.”
He starts to walk past me. I put a hand on his chest. “Hold on there,
hotshot.” My eyes sweep north to south over his body, from his curly black
hair to his long, thick cock and whatever else he has below that. “I’ll get you
some clothes.” Don’t want to give poor Mother a heart attack.
He scoffs. “I’m quite sure the others are used to me in this state by now. I
have nothing to hide.”
I cringe. “Yeah, well, I might have spilled the beans about our little midnight
rendezvous. Not sure Gawain wants to see firsthand what he’s up against right
now.” He grins, and my cheeks flame. “Not that he’s any less-equipped than
you!” I shake my head, muttering under my breath, “Just wait here. I’ll be right
back.”
In the clearing, everyone is welcoming the old-timers. I can’t believe
Lancelot went and rescued them in the middle of the night. It answered once
and for all a horrible decision Gawain would have had to make.
Morgan must be kicking herself. No matter how many times she seems to
beat us, she never really wins, does she?
In this realm of sin and ruin and death, it’s nice to know we can save some
people every once in a while. Especially sweethearts like these two, who fed us
yummy soup and let us have an old-fashioned slumber party in their living
room.
Gawain’s parents are making themselves at home around the campfire.
They’re regaling the soldiers, Kay, and Percival with their wild tale of escape,
with Gawain’s mom taking center stage. She’s having the time of her life.
I skirt around the camp, behind everyone, and find a spare set of clothes in
Lancelot’s tent. When I pop out, Gawain bars my path.
“Where is he?” he asks. His face is serious, expression unreadable.
My heart sinks. “Gawain, please . . .”
“Tell me, little lark. I must speak with him.”
I die a little inside, and groan. “Follow me.”
 When I’m back behind the trees away from the clearing, I give Lancelot the
clothes, while announcing, “You have a guest, Lance. Guess he didn’t want to
wait. Okay, Gawain, whip it out—”
I turn and see Gawain’s face is set in stone. My snide remarks die on my
lips, and I step away from between them. Their eyes are locked. The moment
is even more anxiety-inducing than the build-up of the war. It’s like its own
little war. Or big war, depending who you’re asking.
Gawain’s jaw muscles flex. The silence is deafening. Then . . . he bows his
head. “Thank you, Sir Lancelot. For saving them. Seems I misjudged you.”
Lancelot’s throat bobs. He doesn’t bother saying anything, but simply nods
curtly.
Then Gawain walks forward and thrusts his hand out.
Lancelot looks down at it, then up to Gawain’s face.
He clutches Gawain’s forearm in a salute.
Gawain pulls him into an embrace, surprising the hell out of Lancelot, and
I’m distinctly aware of how close their bodies are—one naked, the other not
—and it’s pretty fucking sexy. There’s no time to gawk, though, because my
heart is fit to burst.
“I won’t misjudge you again,” Gawain murmurs in Lancelot’s ear.
“Brother.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 69
Guinevere

The battle lines are drawn. Thousands of soldiers on either side, waiting on
their commands. Waiting for the inevitable.
The morning is gray and threatens rain. Appropriate for this gloomy
experience. Perfect day for war, I guess.
Our central regiment stands at the edge of the tree line, looking toward
Camelot, spilling out into the plains. The ranks go far, far back into the woods,
to hide our numbers. I’m mingled in the middle of those troops, with Lancelot
and Gawain surrounding me. Kay is on a horse to the west with the Gorre
cavalry and King Bagdemagus—the best way we could think to mitigate Kay’s
fucked-up leg. Flanking us to the east, Percival and Leodegrance’s troops are
hidden behind the sloping hill of the plains.
A wall of shields and soldiers, much larger than our own force, wait for us.
The looming backdrop of the crumbling city of Camelot sits behind them,
culminating in the mountain where the castle sits.
God, this is going to be fucking ugly.
Our armies can’t be more than two hundred yards apart. They’re just so
fucking close, and the realness of this situation hits me hard.
Gone are my jokes and barbs about my knights. We can play around all we
want when we’re alone, but right now, Gawain and Lancelot’s faces are stone-
cold and dangerous. Eyes darting, as if counting the soldiers they’ll be fighting
one by one, to determine the best course of action.
At least they’re finally fighting on the same team.
King Arthur is at the front of our army, atop a white horse. He’s like a
shining beacon in this grim, gray day.
When he sets his horse to a gentle trot toward the empty plains between
our two armies, I notice King Mordred atop a black horse in the distance,
doing the same from his army.
 The two lone kings, father and son, ready to commit mass atrocities in the
name of their kingdom.
I wish it didn’t have to be this way. The ballroom uprising squashed any
ideas of reconciliation. It definitely rubbed the Knights of the Round Table
the wrong way, leaving bruised and battered. It must have scared Mordred and
Morgan, too, showing how fragile their rule really is.
My plea to Arthur, telling him about Mordred being his son, only worked
to set this outcome in stone. Now they’re riding to each other . . . and I
immediately push through ranks of soldiers to get to the front of the army.
“Fireheart!” Lancelot yells, and gives chase. I’m sure Gawain is right behind
him.
It takes a full minute to shoot through the parting ranks of soldiers, to get
to the front. Once I’m there, I have a better visual of Arthur and Mordred,
without tree branches blocking my view. Lance and Gawain are beside me in
seconds, gritting their teeth.
“If Arthur knew you were up here, he’d kill you himself, little lark,” Gawain
grumbles.
“I know,” I say, “which is why we aren’t going to tell him, are we?”
Gawain grunts.
“You can’t keep this from me, guys. I have to see this. I deserve to, after
setting this whole thing in motion.”
“Guin . . .” Lancelot groans. His sturdy hand falls on my tight shoulder.
“None of this is your fault.”
“I’m having a pretty hard time believing that right now, Lance. But thank
you.”
We stay quiet as the two kings meet in the middle.
They say some words to each other from their saddles, which we obviously
can’t hear from this distance.
Merlin waltzes up beside us out of nowhere, as he’s wont to do. He clicks
his tongue. “Tense moment, huh?”
I want to yell at him to be quiet. Fucking kid. How can he be so cruelly
casual about this, when I might lose a man I love and a man I never had the
chance to love, in one fell swoop?
Finally, after agonizing minutes of waiting, Arthur and Mordred dismount
from their steeds. With a slap on their hindquarters, the horses gallop in the
directions of their respective armies.
 The soldiers cheer on our side, banging their shields. It jars my brain with
how loud it is. On the other side of the field, I can hear Mordred’s army doing
the same thing.
Merlin says, “They’ve accepted the duel.”
I swear, he’s getting off on this. His eyes are big in his head, and the only
thing he could do to show more excitement would be to lick his lips hungrily.
This is everything he’s been waiting for. If Arthur and Mordred kill each other,
Morgan’s curse dies. We might win this fight.
I still don’t want it to happen. As heartless and selfish as it is to think, I’d
rather lose a thousand soldiers today than the five men I’ve come to love.
I know it makes me a horrible person, but that’s how deeply my connection
with them goes. Even one death will be excruciating, and I don’t see any way
we could escape that fate if this duel ends at a standstill.
Arthur and Mordred separate like cowboys about to draw guns. At a certain
number of paces, they turn around.
Arthur draws Excalibur out of his sheath. It glints in the gray morning,
brighter than anything else on the field. He loops his shield out from over his
shoulder.
Mordred draws his sword and shield, and then bows to his father.
My heart runs riot in my chest, and my stomach is queasy. I’m biting my lip
so hard it’s bleeding. I can’t look away from this trainwreck, even as salty tears
trickle down my cheeks. Please, no . . .
Arthur and Mordred charge each other, and the crowd falls silent. Their
swords clang, echoing off the hills of the Sarum Plains, bouncing off every
tree behind me.
Cheering rises to a fever pitch immediately, and the shouts of “Come on,
Arthur!” and “Strike him dead, my king!” ring through the ranks.
It’s like we’re watching a backyard brawl, except this one is watched by ten-
thousand strong.
They riposte, push off one another, and circle like wolves. Shields raised.
Eyes peeking over the rims. Locked in total combat, without anything else on
their minds.
They engage again. More chiming, with sparks this time.
I can hear their grunts.
Arthur is bigger and stronger, but Mordred has trained for this moment his
whole life. He beat Gawain—reportedly the best duelist in the land—in the
Tournament of Swords. He’s no slouch. Plus, unlike the last battle that pitted
these two together, Arthur doesn’t have me to fight for. I’m behind him,
watching like all the others. I’m not mixed in with the battle, threatening to get
taken or be killed. At least not yet.
The battle drags on, until I can tell they’re both tiring. Neither has scored a
hit against the other, because they don’t want to misstep. They’re being
hesitant, which is completely unlike Arthur.
I start to think, Maybe he really doesn’t want to kill his son. Maybe that’s what he’s
thinking about. Because I’ve seen them both fight, and as good as Mordred is . . . there’s no
way he can take out the True King of Camelot who is wielding a magical sword.
Right?
They engage for a tenth time and Mordred presses his attack, forcing
Arthur to backpedal. The usurper is quick, cutting low and high and spinning.
“Oh God,” I grumble, then double over and clench my eyes shut. “I can’t
watch.”
“Oohs” and “aahs” rise from our side.
Lancelot’s hand falls on the small of my back. “Guin, you asked to be here.
You said you deserve it. Well, Arthur deserves you, too.”
He’s right. Gingerly, I glance up, squinting, my chin trembling.
Their boots trample the plains they’re fighting on, flattening the yellow
grass underfoot. Their armor glints like their swords, and with every bone-
jarring crack of their shields, I grind my teeth harder.
“Sir!” a voice calls to the left. “Sirs!”
I spin my head in that direction, along with Lancelot and Gawain. With
Arthur not here, it was decided they’d both be second-in-command, which is
odd, but to be expected with these two.
A scout on a fast steed streams across the front of our line, bounding for
us. “A horde of wretchkin are attacking our eastern flank behind the hills!
They came out of nowhere!”
That’s where Percy is!
“Fuck,” Gawain and Lancelot mutter. They look at each other.
“That conniving bitch!” I wail.
“We should have expected trickery while we’re distracted,” Gawain growls,
baring his teeth. “My aunt will do anything for victory.”
“What is your command, sirs?” the scout asks. His face is pale and sweaty.
He looks like he’s seen some shit.
 “How dire is the situation?” Lancelot asks.
“It’s fucked! There are thousands of the rotten bastards!”
A murmur of anxiety runs through our ranks. Everyone can hear the scout.
It’s not exactly boosting morale.
I squint to see how the duel is going. They’re still at it.
Merlin says, “We have to do something. Morgan thinks she can decimate
our army where we can’t see, while everyone’s focus is on Arthur and
Mordred.”
“No shit, wizard!” Gawain chides. He looks to Lancelot. They both firm
their lips, not wanting to give the order—not wanting to overshadow the
other.
I throw my arms up, slamming my hands on my head. “Are you kidding,
guys?! Percy’s down there!” I step forward and thrust a finger toward the rider.
“Call the eastern wing back here. Draw the goblins to us, and situate the
archers in that direction! We’ll have to figure out some other means of
flanking Morgan’s army.”
The rider’s eyes bulge. He glances past me, to Gawain and Lancelot.
“What the fuck are you looking at us for, soldier?” Lancelot yells. “Listen to
her. She’s in command!”
The rider nods vigorously, whistles for his horse to wheel around and get
moving, and while the horse is circling, he pins his gaze on me. “Yes, ma’am.
On your orders!”
Then he takes off.
“Everyone!” I announce, and find myself pacing down the lines of our
soldiers. “Swords and shields out! Archers at the ready! Morgan le Fay thinks
she can deceive us and steal the battle before it’s even begun? Well, I say, fuck
that!”
I wish I had something more along the lines of a Braveheart speech, but
that’s the best I can muster at the spur of the moment.
The troops cheer me regardless. They pump their fists, draw their weapons,
and get ready.
A few minutes later, the eastern hills are swarming with fleeing foot
soldiers. Our foot soldiers, running for their lives. They’re scattered and scared,
every man for himself, and it hurts to see their disorganization. It hurts to see
how quickly they broke rank for fear of their lives.
 A heartbeat later, I understand why, and my stomach drops to my boots.
My jaw also drops to my boots.
A massive wave of black and green piles over the slope of the hill, charging
fast. It’s the largest mob I’ve ever seen, without any yellow space of plains
between the bodies. It’s literally an avalanche of goblins biting at the heels of
our Listenoise and Cameliard regiment. There must be thousands of them.
Morgan le Fay hasn’t waited to call her ace in the hole at a specific time. She
wants to kill our morale early by showing us her force . . . and it works.
I hear the scared mutterings of our soldiers. Gone is the bravado and
eagerness of war as the goblins draw nearer to our soldiers. They squeeze a
little closer together, shields clattering against one another. I turn and see more
than a few dark puddles staining the grass at the soldiers’ feet.
“Oh, fuck,” I croak. My shocked voice is little more than a whisper on the
wind.
“Oh, fuck!” Merlin’s voice is much louder.
I spin to him. He’s watching the duel, while everyone else has been
mesmerized by the encroaching wretchkin army.
I fear the worst—
Arthur and Mordred are both standing. Tired as fuck, hunched over for a
momentary break, but still standing.
No, it’s what’s happening past the fight that alarms Merlin.
Morgan le Fay is walking out toward the plains. Her hands are lifted. She’s
wearing a midnight robe, singling her out as a void of darkness in the bright
morning. Purple and black energy swirls in her palms over her head.
I swear I can see her sadistic grin, even from this distance hundreds of feet
away.
Merlin sprints toward the duelers.
“Wait!” I bark, but there’s no stopping him. The short, boyish wizard raises
his hands as he runs, mimicking Morgan’s gait, except his palms swirl with blue
and white—bright life versus dark death.
I take off after him.
“Fireheart!” Lancelot gasps for the second time this morning. I hear his
and Gawain’s thudding boots behind me. They aren’t going to let me out of
their sights all morning long—not even for a fucking second—and I
appreciate it.
Because it looks like hell is going to crack open early today.
 Off to the east, it’s madness. Our soldiers on the west are starting to creep
closer, undoubtedly getting the same report as we did about the goblins.
Morgan and Merlin look primed for a wizard duel.
Fucking hell!
Merlin stops about fifty feet from Mordred and Arthur. So does Morgan on
the other side.
They thrust their hands forward, nearly in unison.
A black beam of shadowy energy shoots out of Morgan’s hands, while
coruscating streaks of glittering white light jet out from Merlin’s.
I hold my breath and heart when the beams connect in the middle, when I
realize they’re not meeting each other—
They’re targeted at Mordred and Arthur!
Behind us, the restless soldiers let out a wave of gasps. Most of them have
likely never seen magic before, and this is a whole lot of freaking magic.
Morgan’s beam shrouds Mordred in an aura of purple and black. Merlin’s
magic encircles Arthur in the white and blue opposite. Their swords illuminate
the respective colors and energy surrounding them—Excalibur shines with
white and blue fire, and Mordred’s sword ignites with purple and black flames.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” I shout at Merlin.
He grits his teeth, baring them, focusing so hard it looks like his youthful
visage is eighty years older. His eyes squint against the powerful magic blinding
us, veiling the two combatants so we can’t see what they’re doing.
“Breaking the fucking curse, maiden!” he spits out.
When my eyebrows jump to my forehead, he amends his statement.
“T-Temporarily! If Morgan wants to play this fucking game, I’m happy to
oblige!”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 70
Mordred

I swing at Arthur’s head.

He ducks, swipes his shield up, and bats my sword away. Then he comes in
with his own strike.
I block him, another chip of wood flying from my steel-enforced shield.
We separate to gather our breaths. Circle each other, huffing loudly. Our
visors are down so we can’t see each other’s faces.
We have to separate like this every thirty seconds or so. A man in full armor
can only fight in spurts, not prolonged attacks, before his muscles go out. I
can already feel my arm getting heavy and my legs turning into boneless
masses of jelly.
But I refuse to give up. I’ll never surrender against my uncle—no, my father.
We are fighting over differing visions on how Camelot should be led. How the
future of the kingdom should look.
His is the old way. Mine is the new.
I’m not even sure who is fighting on the side of right any longer. I’m not
sure if either of us were ever doing that.
On my side, I have Morgan le Fay, my once-believed aunt. I trust my mother
as much as a snake that slithers between your thighs, fangs out, daring you to
trust her not to bite your fucking cock.
Arthur has Merlin, and he’s no better. The Old One is ancient and
conniving, just like my mother. He was the one who cast aside his apprentice
and spurned her. I have no doubt his vision for Camelot and Logres at large is
just as egotistical and embittered with megalomania.
I can’t quit, though. As much as I’ve wanted to at times, I made a promise
to my people. To Guinevere, my Mistress of the Bridge.
“Are you ashamed of me, Father?” I growl, then lunge at him and go on the
attack.
 He grunts and parries my swings easily. I can hear his breath growing
labored beneath his iron breastplate. If I can wear him down, I can deal the
killing blow.
“Ashamed of how I was born—of your own mistake? Wanting to forever
keep me in your shadow?”
Arthur growls and presses his attack. His voice is muffled, low in his visor.
“I didn’t know, Mordred.”
“Lies!”
“Guin told both of us! Why do you think she did that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Clang!
We collide, riposte, push apart, and circle.
I can’t find any sign of weakness in his formation.
“So we wouldn’t kill each other,” Arthur rasps. “She did us a kindness, and
here we are fighting anyway.”
“I’m not the one who posed the duel, Father.”
Clang—clang! Two quick strikes from Arthur, nearly sliding across the joints
of my armor.
That would have been bad.
He’s trying to distract me.
“I knew it was a foregone conclusion,” he mutters, and I can’t help but hear
the sadness in his tone. “Son and father, uncle and nephew . . . it doesn’t
matter. We will never see eye to eye.”
“You’re worried of my new legitimacy.”
“I’m worried for the people of Camelot, Mordred. I’m worried for
Guinevere and what might happen to her under Morgan le Fay’s tyrannical
regime.”
“And Merlin’s regime would be any different?”
“Merlin has no ambitions to rule!”—clang!—“He’s only trying to end the
curse on our land. Why do you think he looks like a fucking child?”
I snarl, and we charge each other. His sword moves in whirls of death, and
I’m forced back on the defensive.
“You’re right about one thing, Arthur. It doesn’t matter. We’re here now, so
let’s end this!”
I go on the attack, full-offensive, trying to surprise him with my endurance.
He’s forced back on his heels. He parries wildly. I swing low, feigning, and cut
across his side at the last second.
It doesn’t cut into the tender space between his plates, but it dents the
armor nonetheless. It’ll leave a nasty bruise, and work to my advantage if I can
get more of those in.
Arthur grunts in pain, sidesteps, and lifts his visor.
I see his gray eyes peering at me, nearly mimicking the clouds above us. A
gentle pattering of rain starts to fall, which is not good. Rain never did any
favors to a battlefield.
His head swivels left. “What the . . . fuck?”
I take my opportunity, flying at him.
He punches out with his shield thin-ways, and surprises me, smacking me
in the chest without even looking at me.
Pain shoots through my lungs and I backpedal, gasping for breath as my
chest constricts. Is he playing with me?
He still hasn’t look over at me, so I follow his gaze, wondering what the hell
he could find so interesting—
Oh, shit. That’s a whole fuckload of wretchkin streaming down the hill in
the distance.
I face him, and his eyes are wide. Just as he’s about to lower his visor, his
gaze jerks over my shoulder.
I’m not playing that game. I know he’s just trying to distract me again—
Searing heat envelops me. It’s strange, that, because it’s cold out. Yes, I’m
sweaty, but what is this?
I glance down and wheeze from shock. Flickering flames of black and
purple surround me. It’s covering me in an aura of shadows, vibrating through
my armor, through my skin, straight to my insides. The heat becomes pain.
I wail.
“Mordred!” Arthur cries out.
Then his body is awash with blinding alabaster light, shining like polished
marble, and he arches his back.
Excalibur drops to the ground.
I’m forced to drop my sword, too, and double over. “W-What’s happening,
Father?”
Something inside my body lets loose. It breaks and snaps, and at first I fear
it’s my mind cracking. Then I realize those sounds are real. My bones are
snapping. Reshaping in the most agonizing, grueling process I’ve ever felt.
Everything blackens as the claw of darkness rips through me, cutting through
my soul and my mortal mind—releasing power and energy I’ve never
experienced.
Or have I?
When I glance over at my sides, where most of the ripping, grotesque
tearing sound is located, I see the first hint of a talon piercing through my
skin, rising, unfolding what looks like a gigantic wing from my shoulder blade.
And then there are the scales trailing up my arms . . .

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 71
Guinevere

“Once upon a time, there were even dragons.”

Lancelot’s words, from long ago.
“Holy fucking shit,” I mutter, gawking in disbelief.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 72
Arthur

Gold scales line my arms and legs. This isn’t something I remember—it must
have been taken with the memories of Guinevere, when the curse began.
There’s a reason, I suppose, why my bloodline is called Pendragon. Now it
makes sense why Morgan would want a “Pendragon of her own,” to fight
against me.
My armor crumbles, bending, twisting with gnarled screeches of steel
before exploding out as my body expands.
Across from me, my son is going through the same transformation.
My body fills with unquenchable hunger and power. The plains and the
army of soldiers past Mordred shrink in my view, and I can suddenly sense
everything around me. I can smell the birds from miles away, hiding in the trees.
The earthworms in the ground, squirming to flee our footsteps as we circle in
this dance of death. The heady scent of rain in the air. I can even smell
Guinevere and her soft hues of lavender and vanilla and cinnamon far behind.
The putrid odor of the goblins to the east reeks worst of all, and I snarl
and flare my nostrils.
Smoke wafts from my nose. I glance down at the ground, dozens of feet
below, and see my feet have transformed into claws.
The wretchkin—transmogrified, grotesque fairies. I suppose I’m not much different than
them after all.
My draconic shape is massive. Wings beat to my sides, sparkling with a hint
of sunlight behind the clouds, reflecting a rainbow of gold and amber and
bronze off my scales. I lift my head on my long neck and roar. Fire billows
into the air.
On the other side of the field, Mordred has shifted into a silver dragon,
nearly equal my size.
 The beams of energy from the puny humans, the wizard Merlin and the
sorceress Morgan, die away. They’ve used their tricks to prime us into
transformation.
Now, I am something ancient and more powerful than anyone on this plane
can understand. Hundreds of thousands of years of knowledge and battle and
hunger rip through me, overwhelming my senses.
Mordred shrieks, letting out a plume of smoke from his maw, and gallops
toward me on two hind legs and two smaller front arms that end on sword-
sized talons.
My wings pump against the sky and I fly toward him.
Our meeting is an explosion of flesh, snapping jaws, and raking talons. Our
arms flail and claw for purchase as we screech and roar and wrestle for
dominance.
Every connection lets out a booming wave of sound that rocks the plains,
flattening the grass in every direction.
I push off him with my hind legs, clawing into his vulnerable, soft middle,
and then take to the sky.
I intuitively know how to handle this form. Mordred does, too, giving chase
into the clouds. I blow fire at him from above, but it harmlessly sizzles on his
scales.
My wings haven’t brought me up here so I could run from Mordred
Pendragon. They didn’t bring me here so I could make sure the petty humans
below are safe.
No, they brought me here to wreak death from above.
I bank to the left and Mordred streams past, not expecting my sudden
maneuver. He disappears into a cloud, puffing away.
I level my wings and neck and dive for the ground—for the hillside where
the goblins are pouring over in droves.
I reach them in seconds, and they scream in terror at my grandeur.
Unhinging my jaw, fire coils in the back of my throat. I release it in a
rippling cone of orange death, angled down at the hillside.
Wretchkin are incinerated on the spot. The plains are left in a streak of
black and charred corpses.
Still, they pursue the humans in their thousands, toward the trees, trying to
find solace amongst nature.
Good fucking luck, you despicable little beas—
 Mordred materializes from a cloud above me, maw widened. I can see the
sizzle of flame on his tongue.
He spews fire at me and I close my eyes as my wings bring me through it.
White-hot heat smolders my scales, and I shimmy my body to shake off the
smoke coming off me.
When I crane my long neck, I see him giving chase. I bank up at a hairpin
angle and he pursues.
We crash together in the clouds, ripping away with claws and talons.
Snapping our jaws and penetrating scales. Bright blood streams down from the
heavens from our vicious attacks.
We’re locked in an embrace, coiling, spinning, wings beating furiously. The
ground grows larger as we plummet through the sky.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 73
Guinevere

Arthur and Mordred in their dragon forms are terrifying. I’m awestruck at
their sheer majesty and size—easily three stories tall, with glittering scales of
gold and silver, long necks, whipping tails, glorious wings. Those fucking wings!
I envision myself riding atop Arthur, howling at the sun like a true chaos
deity. Reigning death from above—
“Guin!”
My daydream is short-lived as Lancelot’s voice funnels into my ear. I level
my gaze and see soldiers charging toward us on the other side of the field,
nearing the center where Morgan and Merlin are flinging bursts of energy at
each other.
“Back behind the line, fireheart. We’re going to get trampled!” Lancelot
urges.
I glance over my shoulder. Our troops are charging to meet Mordred’s
army.
“No!” I say, steeling myself. I draw my sword and shield, then look into his
terrified gold eyes. “Lancelot, if I’m going to live in this realm, then I’m going
to fight for this realm!”
There’s the Braveheart moment I was waiting for.
“Fucking hell, little lark,” Gawain growls beside me. To his credit, he draws
his sword without complaint. Lancelot brings out both of his, and then we’re
waiting—
Waiting for our soldiers to meet us, bending our knees, not yet, not yet—
Now!
We charge with the soldiers, swords raised high.
The smell of sulfur and fire and magic cloy in the air as we stampede
through the Sarum Plains.
 Mordred and Arthur are in the sky, wailing at each other, blurring by in
shades of gold and silver. Their shrieks and mighty roars shake the very
foundation of the earth.
I can’t focus on that anymore. I can see the fucking yellow teeth of my
enemies, snarling, bearing down on us.
I raise my shield, screaming for glory and madness, and we’re twenty feet
apart.
A bubble of magic surrounds Merlin and Morgan, creating a barrier no one
can penetrate as they square off in their wizard duel.
So we go around them.
I hear Morgan laugh as she flings a midnight-flavored firebolt at Merlin.
“You’re not half the mage you think you are as a boy, dear Merlin!”
Merlin’s high-pitched retort sounds off a second later, as he whips a
crackling bolt of lightning at the sorceress. “Half the age, and still twice the
mage you’ll ever be, my ill-fated apprentice!”
His voice is comically high, and I would laugh if death wasn’t staring me in
the face ten feet away. I’m all here for the wizardly snark contest.
Seconds later—
Crash!
My shield smacks into my first foe’s shield, and the brutal, violent collision
jars my bones. I manage to keep my shield in my ringing hand.
The enemy is shoulder to shoulder with others. Luckily, I have the two best
fighters in the realm on either side of me. Lancelot and Gawain dip their
swords over and under my shield, working in tandem in a way I never would
have expected from the former rivals.
My eyes careen to the right to take in Gawain, and I see King Kay atop a
steed far off in the flanks, leading cavalry into the enemy’s forces.
To my left, Lancelot grits his teeth and fights for dear life—for my life—
while Percival is firing into the streams of goblins still charging down from the
hill.
Fire lights up the hillside and I blink in shock as a whole plethora of
goblins disappear in black smoke in an instant.
Then I’m ripped back to the battle at hand.
Lance and Gawain aren’t letting any bad guys get anywhere near me. It’s a
little unsatisfying, because I haven’t gotten to stab anyone yet, but what am I
supposed to do? Tell them to stop protecting me?
 It’s fucking terrifying in here, caught in a pitched battle. Breathing comes
hard. Claustrophobia sets in, and I know any wrong move will end my life—
and distraction from here on out could mean lights out for Team Guin.
I wail and swing my sword with all the others, eager not to let that happen.
The morning sky is alight with fire and smoke and waves of colorful magic.
I just told myself I wouldn’t get distracted, but goddamn is it pretty and scary.
Pain slices across my bicep, somehow nicking between my armor.
“Fuck!” I growl.
“Fireheart!” Lancelot roars, and immediately sticks one of his blades
through the throat of the man in front of me.
Behind me, soldiers press against my back. They’re surging forward, and I
have nowhere to go but along with the tide.
I grit my teeth and cry out.
An arm wraps around my bicep and pulls, hard, with inhuman strength—
It’s Lancelot, yanking me out of the fray.
Gawain is immediately on the other side of me.
I take a choppy, ragged breath. There’s now a wall of our soldiers in front
of me, giving me a moment of respite. Others are eager to get into the fray
behind me, though, and I wonder how long this terrible melee can last. It
smells of sweat and coppery blood and sparking steel, and it’s only just begun.
“Come on!” Lance urges, pulling me. “We have to be more strategic! Pick
our fights!”
I nod once, unable to form words. My tongue is a dry lump in my throat.
He’s clearly been through more of these than I have. I’ll defer to Lance and
Gawain, just this once.
We skirt the front of the melee where it’s most dangerous, and spew out
the back of our ranks. Here, where the plains are sloped a bit, I can get a
better visual of the overall fight. I can see over helmets and shields.
Kay is cutting a path through the enemy’s right flank, joined by at least a
hundred glorious steeds and riders. He looks valiant as fuck swinging his axe
and taking down enemies while his horse rears up on its hind legs.
We’re losing our left flank, and Percival is closer now than he was a few
minutes ago. The goblins are encroaching, circling our reinforcements, and it’s
not looking good.
“We have to shore up the left flank!” I cry out, pointing.
 “Agreed,” Gawain says. He swipes his forearm over his nose, dirtying it
with mud, and grins. “Whoever said you weren’t a battlefield commander, little
lark?”
We take off running.
“Are you sure about this?” Lancelot asks. “We’ll be fighting wretchkin, and
they’re unpredictable.”
I’ve never been more unsure of anything in my life. “I’m sure!” I lie.
We swerve between soldiers eager to get into the mosh pit of a fight,
cutting across our ranks at a depth where we aren’t in much danger, until we
careen out of the side and come alongside Percival.
My wild-haired blond knight is pulling arrows from his quiver and firing
them off at an alarming rate. It looks so haphazard and defensive, like he’s not
actually aiming, but I watch his arrows, and every single one he fires hits a
mark and brings down a goblin.
There’s a reason he won the archery tournament.
“Thank Avalon you’re here!” Percival says, as other archers join him.
One of them goes down, a crude arrow protruding from his neck,
probably shot from a goblin archer. He topples to the ground at my feet, and I
yelp.
I lift my shield and duck my head. “What, to help you?”
“No, just to know you’re alive!”
Morgan and Merlin are fighting near us, still encircled in their mage war.
There are currently eight Merlins fighting Morgan, trying to distract her with
astral projections—
Oops, never mind. Morgan blasts all but one of them away with a wave of
fire that looks like it came from a flamethrower. But it came from her fucking
mouth.
“Is she a dragon too?!” I wail, my voice lilting.
“Don’t think so,” Gawain snarls. “Just a cunt.”
Merlin presses his attack, spinning his staff and shooting sheets of ice and
shards of icicles at the sorceress.
Everywhere I look is madness. It’s not only getting hard to breathe because
of the sheer density of the soldiers around us, and the body heat—now there’s
black smoke in the air from the dragonfire and absentminded blasts of the
wizards, which burn the plains wholesale.
 The thin rain doesn’t stand a chance. The only thing it’s going to do is make
terrain horrible for our foot soldiers, muddying the ground.
I choke on the smoke, covering my face with my arm. I’m temporarily
blinded—
And Gawain hauls me off to the side without saying a word—
Just as an arrow flies through the air where my face just was.
My eyes bulge. “Fuck.”
He winks at me. “Fuck is right, little lark.”
Is that a grin on his face? Is he smiling right now?!
My knights are fucking madmen.
Overhead, another deafening roar from the dragons pierces the sky. I
glance up to see Arthur and Mordred locked together, twirling through the air.
They’re . . . falling. From their combined weight.
And they’re getting bigger and bigger in my vision—
“Watch out!” I scream, pointing up.
Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival crane their necks.
I’m not sure who grabs me out of my dumbstruck position, but I’m yanked
in the opposite direction, and my legs drag, cutting twin trails along the high
grass.
Mordred and Arthur land with a sickening thud, creating a crater that cuts
zigzagging lines through the earth, swallowing up goblins. They landed on at
least twenty, too.
Their necks rear up above the rim of the crater and they’re back at it. Only
now they’re fucking close, and at this distance they’re even scarier.
I wonder if Arthur would recognize me, or if those slitted eyes only see
death and destruction and the next victim to kill.
Their jaws snap and shut, moving sluggishly. They both bleed from
multiple places, little splotches of blood trickling down their glimmering scales
from the light rain.
To the right, Merlin calls forth from the sky itself, hand thrust into the air.
The clouds swirl and darken and rumble with thunder. Lightning cracks down
a second later in jagged spears that explode on the ground on impact.
Morgan le Fay goes flying with a cry, and I silently fist-pump at Merlin’s
victory.
It doesn’t last long.
 A second form comes buzzing through the sky, from the ramparts of
Camelot City. Her hair is dishwater blonde and her face is gaunt, with shining
eyes. Her robes flutter around her as she careens through the sky.
She’s fucking flying, so that’s not a good sign.
The new woman pushes through and touches down inside the spherical
ward of magic. She draws a fireball between her palms, expanding it wider and
wider.
“Fuck, Queen Agnes of Sorestan,” Lancelot growls.
He sighs and looks down at me pityingly.
“Go,” I say, pulling him close. “Your father needs you.”
Lancelot doesn’t want to go, but he will. At my insistence, he will.
With a firm nod, he hands me his two swords.
Oh, fuck yeah. I twirl them in my hands—they’re light and perfectly
balanced, glistening black like obsidian—
“Nope,” Gawain says, and snatches one of the swords from me. “Give me
one of those. Keep your shield up. I’m not about to watch you take a stray
arrow to the throat because you’re so enamored with Lancelot’s special
blades.”
“Aw.” I frown, shoulders sagging. I do as he says.
Lancelot grips Gawain by the shoulder, pulling him close. “Keep her alive,
brother. Promise me that.”
Gawain grinds his teeth. “I will, brother. You have my word.”
Lancelot growls as he turns away. “You too, Percival! Don’t let anything
happen to our little snoop!”
I’m not sure Percy is listening. He’s caught in a sniping competition with at
least five goblin archers, and by the time I blink he already has three of them
down.
Then his blond head nods once, decisively, and Lancelot takes off. I watch
as he barrels through bodies, and wings sprout from his back. His form grows
as he shifts on the run, and then he takes to the sky before his transformation
is even complete.
He barrels toward the circle of magic and slams into it. Cracks spiderweb
through the shield, and I know he’ll be inside there before long to help Merlin.
My eyes swerve to the crater where Arthur and Mordred are fighting as
dragons—
Except I can’t see them anymore.
 I let out an involuntary sound when I see hands biting into the ground over
the rim of the crater.
Arthur pulls himself over it and rolls onto the plains.
My heart soars.
Mordred is on the other side, also pulling himself up.
Strangely, my heart doesn’t sink seeing him.
They’re both naked, no longer dragons.
They eye each other across the way. Their knees bend.
It’s a sight to see, these magnificent specimens in all their glory—first as
dragons, now as muscled, bare men. But fuck has it got to be uncomfortable
being in your birthday suit when everyone surrounding you is decked out head
to toe in armor.
Their gazes sweep the ground.
Excalibur glistens with white fire not twenty feet from Arthur. Mordred’s
dark saber rests right next to it.
They both take off, sprinting away from the crater.
And then my vision is blocked by a swarm of goblins headed right for me.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 74
Guinevere

I yank my blade out of the goblin’s side, yelling viciously. With a croak, his
dark blood sprays and spills on the yellow plains.
My arm aches. My body is in knots.
Still, I turn to face the next wave of wretchkin, with Gawain at my side.
Percival shoots two of the goblins before they can get to us, but we’re about
to be overrun by at least five more.
“Brace!” Gawain shouts, going into a fighter’s stance. He lifts his shield and
slides Lancelot’s sword over the top of it, to protect his body. I echo the same
stance.
Pounding footsteps rattle my feet behind us, and I chance a look over my
shoulder—
Kay barrels down on his steed, every bit a knight in shining armor as he
roars and slams into the incoming group of goblins.
They scatter, frightened of the horse’s giant hooves and snarling mouth.
Kay’s axe arcs down, left and then right, as he wheels death to our enemies.
The momentary hesitation and scattering of the goblins gives Gawain and
me an opening to charge in and pick them off one at a time. It lets Percival get
his bearings and focus his shots on enemies further out.
All around us, the scene squeezes my heart. The morning is blood-filled,
and the shouts of despair from wounded soldiers on both sides are starting to
become a constant thread of noise.
With Kay’s assistance, and my three knights beside me, we make quick
work of the goblins. There’s a desperate moment of respite, where my eyes
are torn between two other battles taking place—
Merlin and Lancelot to my right, fighting the two sorceresses. Merlin is
wrapped in a tangle of dark vines from Morgan le Fay, flexing his jaw as the
tendrils squeeze him. His hair brightens, turning whiter in a magical ombre,
while lines start to form on his face, showing his true age.
Morgan is sucking the literal life out of him, and I want to go over there,
but I’m not even sure I’d be able to pass through that cracked, glimmering
barrier of magic surrounding them, keeping people at bay.
Lancelot has managed to break into the sphere, probably because he’s
magical himself, but he hasn’t broken the sphere. Queen Agnes keeps him at
bay, hands working in a flurry to toss magic at him through her fingertips. It’s
more annoying than anything, it seems, and I hope my towering demon-knight
can do something to save his dad.
Meanwhile, to my left, Arthur and Mordred roll and swoop their swords
off the ground, and lock in solitary combat. They move fast, dipping and
weaving, bobbing, their bare ass cheeks flexing as their sparkling swords clank
and spark with every blow.
With neither of them encumbered by full body armor, they show their true
capabilities, and it’s a sight to behold.
I’m more surprised at Mordred, honestly. I’ve always known Arthur is the
best warrior we have—next to Lancelot, perhaps—especially with Excalibur at
his side.
The Relic is no joke.
Mordred, though, fights with an intensity I’ve never seen. He presses his
attack and keeps Arthur on his heels—bobbing, spinning, swinging from every
direction. It’s like he’s fighting for something else. Fighting to retain the home
he’s built for himself, from an invader king. He’s a man who has everything to
lose, and he refuses to give in.
I rush toward them, forcing my three knights to follow me. Even if we
can’t interfere in their fight, at least we can be close and keep other soldiers
and goblins at bay.
The two kings are given a wide berth. No one wants to be the man or
woman responsible for stabbing one of them in the back, when they’re the
main characters of this war. This duel has been a long time coming.
And then it shifts, and everything changes.
As I skid to a halt to watch, I’m forced to raise my sword and shield to fend
off against a frothing goblin, which distracts me for a few minutes.
Once I’m free again, huffing and puffing from exertion, I spin to see how
the duel is going.
 I catch them taking a breather, spinning their swords, ready to jump back
in. They’re both lined with bloody slashes across their bodies—from their
airborne fight as dragons, and from the cuts they’ve taken as humans.
Their chests heave. They lunge, and white flames dance and bloom against
glittering midnight fire as their swords connect. They lock up, pressing, swords
diagonal against their faces, teeth bared in snarls.
Arthur pushes Mordred back with a loud harrumph. Then he spins to his
side.
I’m off in the direction he’s looking, but there’s no way he could have seen
me out of his peripheral. I was more behind him than anything—
Yet his steely gaze finds mine amidst the throng of soldiers and goblins
everywhere around and between us, and he pins me with a stare.
We say nothing. He’s too far to hear anyway.
My eyes widen. I’m not sure what’s happening.
His intense, bloodied face cracks with the smallest smile at the corners, still
focused on me.
Mordred notices our quick exchange and charges.
“Arthur!” I shriek.
My king half-turns just as Mordred gets to him—
And plunges his fire-black sword into Arthur’s chest.
The sword sticks out his back, spraying blood, and Arthur folds in on
himself.
My world pitches to the side, dizziness flooding me.
“NOOOO!”
My knights let out similar blood-curdling cries of pure anguish, and start
moving in a flurry of limbs and flashing steel to get to their king and brother-
in-arms.
The pain that racks me is more than just emotional—it’s physical, tearing at
my heart, ripping me to shreds, and finally spearing directly into my soul.
Breaking everything I’ve come to love about Logres.
But Arthur doesn’t crumble immediately, even impaled like he is.
No, he slides himself further on the sword, to the shock of Mordred, while
grimacing and yelling and spitting up blood the whole time.
Then he slams Excalibur at a side-angle, directly into his son’s ribs.
Mordred’s eyes widen and glaze over, his chest rising but never falling. With
tautness to his body, his hands fall from the sword buried in Arthur’s chest,
and then that rigid posture slackens. They both stagger—
And topple over to the side.
Smoldering pressure at my belly blossoms into white-hot heat and scorches
my blood and runs along my veins.
Something I’ve only felt in spurts and hints builds inside me, growing like
the sapling of a tree, until its roots turn to trunk turn to limb turn to leaf and
flower. It spreads through me.
And then it sits there, right on my heart, as I stare in shock and disbelief.
I drop to my knees.
I hear a crack of magic and glance over, hardly sensing what else is
happening elsewhere on the battle as it becomes nearly impossible to process
the fall of King Arthur and King Mordred.
Morgan has seen what’s happened, and now she waves her hands in arcane
motions, then throws them wide.
The bindings holding Merlin in place vanish, and the shield of magic
barricading them inside their bubble explodes outward in a flash of purple and
blue.
A shockwave of energy and wind blows outward from the epicenter of the
barrier, knocking everyone down in the vicinity.
Even from my distance, my hair whips around my face and I fall
backwards, onto my back, to stare up at the gray sky pitter-pattering with soft
rain in my burning eyes.
Gray sky like Arthur’s gray eyes, which I’ll never be able to look into again.
Never be able to smile at or tease or kiss.
The agony in my heart is bubbling up, desperate to find a way out. Yet I
can’t bring myself to do anything about it. Someone could stomp on me, or
stab me right here on the ground, right now, and I wouldn’t even care. I’d be
fine with dying, if it meant I could join Arthur wherever he is.
Another whoosh of wind makes me prop my head up, only to see Morgan
flying in the direction of the two kings.
Her shockwave that broke the magic shield even incapacitated her ally for a
second, causing Queen Agnes to stagger, and her magic to vanish on her
fingertips.
Lancelot is less affected by the shockwave, given his size, and he doesn’t
miss his opportunity. He rakes his claws across her belly, eviscerating the
blonde mage, and Agnes’ innards flop out of her stomach. She looks down
with outrage and an expression of disbelief—
Just as Lancelot waylays into her, ripping and clawing with anguish and
anger, pulling out her guts by the yard, until the final slash of his claws
separates the Queen of Sorestan’s torso from her pelvis.
He moves on, awash in the blood of his enemy, and presses toward
Morgan, pulling up Merlin from the ground along the way.
The sorceress levitates and flies to the ended duel, raising her hands as she
touches down mere feet from their bodies.
The ground rises and lifts Excalibur right to her waiting palm. I hear a
buzzing sound and look to where the kings’ armor crumbled when they
dragon-shifted, and see a silver circlet rise from the pile of bent metal where
Mordred shifted. It screams through the air and slams into Morgan’s palm like
a boomerang.
Finally, Morgan twists her fingers and a ripping sound splits the fabric of
space in front of her. She reaches her hand into the small window and pulls
out the Holy Grail, which floats in front of her as the portal closes.
She gives my knights a rictus grin.
All the while, I stare in slack disbelief. Not really seeing what’s happening as
the simmer of rage builds and builds and aches in my bones and blood. My
head throbs. My soul is unattached from my body, floating somewhere in the
nether, and it’s making me immovable.
I can’t move or act.
I can only simmer with wrath.
My knights pull up in a semi-circle around her, joined by Merlin, who lets
out a raspy “Fuck.”
Morgan rests the Pendragon Circlet on her head, swings Excalibur out to
her side, whipping blood off its blade, and holds the Holy Grail by the stem in
her other hand.
The circlet’s silver gleam becomes tarnished and strangled by black veins.
Excalibur’s brilliant white shine of divine power darkens, muddies, and swirls
with creeping darkness. And the Grail bubbles over with shadowy tendrils, like
snakes.
Morgan le Fay has aligned the Relics Three.
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 75
Guinevere

My knights take no time to gawk at Morgan le Fay in all her horrid glory. Not
like me, who is stunned and unable to lift my arms.
They charge her, as one—
And stand no chance.
She dips and flies through the air like a menace, summoning an umbral
pentagram shield in front of her, which wards off any physical attack. Even
from Lancelot’s claws. Even from Merlin’s most powerful magic.
When her hands move, the shadows on the plains twist to her beckoning.
They whip out and strike the knights, causing catastrophic of mayhem and
damage.
She cackles with insane glee, reveling in her newfound power. The clouds
overhead darken, a storm brewing.
Except this storm is not natural. This is not Merlin calling forth lightning
from the sky, this is Morgan utilizing the Relics Three, even as the land around
us breaks free from its Rot.
I suppose the curse and the Rot ending doesn’t matter much if everyone in
the land is dead or enslaved by the Witch Queen.
Percival fires an arrow at her that would usually strike her straight in the
forehead.
It bounces against the dark shield and whips back toward him, and he’s
forced to roll to the side to avoid getting struck in the neck by his own arrow.
Kay swings his axe and an explosion of black sparks shatters the axehead
and sends him reeling back, flying ten feet in the opposite direction.
Gawain tries the same thing from the other side—behind her—but
flanking her does nothing. The power is too great, and shadows catch his
blade before he can stab her. They twist the steel and turn his weapon in on
itself, and he’s forced to drop Lancelot’s sword before it strikes him.
 Even the blackened steel of Lancelot’s blade, which I assumed was magical
given his demonic bloodline, is not powerful enough to break through
Morgan’s omnipotent wards and magic with the Relics Three at her disposal.
Lancelot claws at her and howls in pain when she turns in his direction,
presses a hand to his arm, and burns the fur from his skin.
Merlin throws his best magic at her, and it’s still not enough. Everything he
touches her with sputters and dies when it gets within five feet of her body.
With my knights scattered around in a circle of exhaustion and confusion,
helping each other up, she lifts herself into the air. Her robes flutter around
her body. Lightning crackles in the sky. Her eyes are purple and black, just like
her ugly, evil magic. She’s flying without wings.
Her hands form another arcane gesture and when her fingers dance, the
shadows trill and vibrate along the plains.
Tentacles of black rise up from the ground and envelop all my knights and
Merlin. They become wrapped in the vines similar to what Morgan had been
doing to Merlin earlier, sucking his life force—except now it’s done five-fold,
because she’s that much more powerful.
My knights writhe in pain, arms pinned to their bodies. Their faces contort
and twist as Morgan leeches their lives and laughs while she does it.
With Morgan and my guys distracted, I find myself blindly marching
toward Arthur and Mordred’s corpses. My feet move on their own volition. My
mind is blank, even while the rage inside me thrums and boils.
Once I fall to my knees and see Arthur’s grimacing face, and his unseeing
gray eyes, a sob wrenches free. I put a hand to his cold, bloody forehead, and
then reach over and do the same to Mordred, who is similarly caught in a
pinched grimace of agony that’s etched onto his face for time immemorial.
The thrum of rage reaches new heights once I have my hands on both of
them. The expanding knot of wrath and power at my core spreads through my
arms and legs, my fingers and toes, begging for a way to escape.
It wants out.
There’s something about seeing the face of the man I love, dead at my lap,
that finally cracks the code and brings the imminent rage to the forefront of
my mind.
My wandering soul slams back into my body, and I go rigid on a gasp,
staring up at the cloudy sky.
 Pain racks my limbs. The searing heat becomes overwhelming, burns my
blood to its finest strand and droplet, and scorches out of me.
I glance over and see the struggle my knights are going through. Trying
desperately to avenge their king, but unable to because of Morgan’s sheer
strength with the Relics Three at her disposal.
Even if she can’t use the Holy Grail to mess with time and space, it appears
to be a powerful weapon on its own right, and she can use that.
No, she needs me to use the Grail for her. To activate its inner power.
Only I am capable.
For a moment, time stops.
A heady wave of emotion hits me as I think about my knights dying before
me, my king slaughtered, my redemptive prince murdered, and one person
responsible for it all. Everyone I love, ended.
I never knew one person could be capable of inflicting so much heartache
and turmoil.
My hands curl into fists—
And the rage explodes from my body in every direction, like a firebomb I
can’t control. It screams across the battlefield, sending everyone on their asses.
Morgan’s face twitches in my direction, the first sign of doubt shaping her
brow.
I stand on legs that aren’t my own as power glows inside me. To my right
and left, wings of pure fire spread wide, beating the sky. My eyes burn, no
longer with sadness, but with living flames.
“An outsider, born from fire, awash in the river of light,” a serene female voice
says in my head. The same voice that first spoke to me when I came here, and
begged the question: “When will the cycle end, Guinevere?”
I am the answer to the prophecy.
I am revenge and ruin and sin.
The phoenix rising from the river of fire and the ashes of destruction.
And the cycle ends now.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 76
Guinevere

“The fourth Relic!” Merlin croaks aloud. “The Ever Queen—she is the fourth
Relic!”
Morgan’s shadows unravel from my knights and dissipate, descending into
the earth so she can focus all of her magic on me.
“I still wield the other Relics Three, you fiery whore!” she wails.
Then I lift my flame-covered hands and pull.
Excalibur and the Pendragon Circlet and the Holy Grail rip free from her
hands and body. The sheer force of my will steals them from her and brings
them to me.
Not anymore, bitch.
Bands of energy—red and purple, white and black—swirl around my body
like a vortex.
A cry of anguish rips free from Morgan’s mouth at her sudden loss of
power. Her levitating feet land on the ground, and she staggers.
Now she’s just another witch . . .
“And I am the fire that burns,” I say, though my voice is ancient, guttural, and
not my own.
My burning wings flap and I scream through the sky, every fiber of my
being sizzling and sparking like gorgeous embers. My hair itself has turned
from red curls to flaming coils.
I slam into Morgan and force her back a step with a sonic boom of power.
The thrust of Excalibur, when in my hands, cracks through her shield of
darkness. The crown atop my head guides my ephemeral hand. The Holy Grail
glows with transcendent light rather than bubbling sludge of death.
Morgan gestures in a flurry to whip shadows at me.
They burn as they touch me, hissing in my flames.
 I move too fast for my mind to comprehend. I’m all feel and touch and
intuition, and within seconds I have Morgan on her heels, brow rising to her
forehead.
Around us, the battle has paused. Everyone is watching. The goblins are
shrieking at my light and fleeing in every direction. Her army is breaking. Their
king is dead, and their empress is on the way out.
She screams with unbridled rage, and I just laugh at her.
Excalibur nicks her arms, her legs, spraying blood.
The blood emboldens me, empowers me. It only makes me stronger as I
feast on her impending doom.
Finally, she meets my flame with her own, and in a smokescreen of magic
she tries to flee toward a shadow so she can portal through it.
I close my eyes, dip into another plane of existence, and appear in the
shadow in front of her before she can reach it.
Her feet screech to a halt. Her hand rises to shield herself—
Excalibur comes down and takes her hand off at the wrist.
She lets out an absolute banger of a screech.
I grab her other wrist with my blazing hand, burning straight to the bone,
and thrust Excalibur into her belly.
The brilliant energy of the Relic shimmers through her black robes,
expunging shadows around her, and she lurches back off my blade, mouth
open in a horrified, shocked visage.
She clutches at her belly. Blood pours from the wound—red and human,
unlike the dark blood of the demonborn. It seeps through her fingers. When
she looks down, her eyebrows tilt sadly. Helplessly.
She topples onto her back.
I step toward her, radiating more energy than ever.
Then I kneel, bend down, and say, “You thought you could win, did you?”
To my surprise, she chokes a laugh. It bubbles up on the blood spilling out
both sides of her silver lips. “Oh, my fiery . . . maiden. I’ve already won.”
My brow furrows. Even in this elegant form of pure energy, I feel the very
human emotion of doubt and reluctance spread through my limbs.
“Your kings are . . . dead. You’ll never be . . . never be the same.” She
coughs with a snort, and it’s an ugly sound.
I should put her out of her misery.
But I want her to suffer.
 Suffer the same way I’m suffering.
She lets out another strangled laugh. “I never had you, you know. Not . . .
not for one minute.”
The crease between my brow deepens.
A sadistic, gleeful smile lifts her lips. “Even when I thought . . . I did. Poor
Lamorak. I lost him . . . two weeks before the ball. Someone . . . interfered . .
.”
What is she trying to say?
She pulls me close with her free hand—a skeleton of burnt flesh and
bubbling gore, dipping into the fire that is my body.
“Now, ask yourself . . . dear Guinevere . . . who could be more . . . more
powerful than me . . . to thieve my mind control?”
It takes me a moment for my brain to calculate. To mull over her last,
parting words. Then I think, Why would she be telling me this? Why use the last of her
strength to . . .
To remind me I’m never in control. Even with this power. My body
tightens, and my flaming wings sink to fold over both of us. “You lie.”
But she has no reason to lie. She’s dying. Memories flash before me in
perfect synchronicity, powered by my new form: white energy against dark.
Lamorak’s eyes—a milky white hue instead of the soulless black orbs I
recognized from Morgan’s mind control powers, from someone like Sir
Galehaut.
The rage pulsing through me expands outward.
Betrayal of the highest order.
When I glance down at Morgan, she lets out her last breath. Her silver lips
tremble and then still. Her eyes stay open, unseeing, staring up at the sky.
I look behind me, at my knights, at Merlin—everyone keeping their
distance. Then past them, to the bodies of King Arthur and King Mordred.
Recognition runs through me, an undeniable urge of what I must do.
Intuition takes hold.
I step away from Morgan, deciding to deal with her dying words another
time, and make my way past my knights.
“Guin?” Lancelot says, in his battered human form.
I pass him, all of them, and kneel before Arthur and Mordred. Then I lift
my head to the sky and close my eyes, letting the rain hiss in my vortex of fire.
 My essence shoots to the sky, and my soul separates from my body once
more.

† † †

I open my eyes.
I’m not a fiery angel-warrior anymore. I don’t feel celestial and all-powerful.
I feel small, meek, and human. I’m naked, bare, exposed, just to add insult to
injury.
I’m standing on a bank, with the gentle froth of waves rolling up to my
ankles behind me. A low fog of mist cloys through the island in front of me.
In front of me stands the Lady of the Lake. Her hair is a mess of tangles
and tendrils over her shoulders, dark against her alabaster skin. Her gown is
soaked through, her nipples pert, and she fixes me with an alien half-smile.
“Am I dead?” I ask.
Her half-smile widens. Her voice is ethereal as she says, “The cycle is
broken, Guinevere. The curse is ended. You have done it.”
“Yes. The male Pendragon bloodline has ended.” I frown. “Congratulations
to me.” There’s only scorn and grief in my tone. She says I’ve won, but what is
winning when I’ve lost everything in the process?
She says, “Now you must choose: your homeland or your found family.”
I swallow hard. “I made that decision long ago, Lady of the Lake. I know
my options: leave and never return, or stay and never leave. I choose Camelot.
But it will never be the same without Arthur.”
“If you stay,” she says, ignoring my complaints, “a new cycle begins from
this point forward. If you were to leave the realm of Logres afterward, you’d
restart the vicious pattern that brought us here in the first place.”
My brow rises. “So that’s how it works.”
“No matter your decision, Guinevere, sacrifices must be made.”
I wish, for once, a sacrifice didn’t have to be made.
There has to be a reason I’m here, on this godly plane, speaking to this
fairy woman.
“You were not born of this world,” she says, “yet you have become one
with it. Part of the fabric of Logres.”
I land on Merlin’s words when I first transformed. “She is the fourth Relic!”
 My breath hitches in my throat. “Are you saying I . . . have powers—
something I can do to rectify all this?”
Her head bobs once. “Your family bloodline, and you, has had the power
of life inside you the entire time. Lying dormant. Waiting to pour out.”
“What are you saying?”
“You have the tools at your disposal, Guinevere. You need but use them.
You are life-born, the controller of fates. You are the phoenix from which life
regenerates.” Her pointed chin nods over my shoulder. “Fill the cup with the
magic, divine waters of Avalon. Bring it to your lips to escape this world
forever. But . . . bring it to another’s lips, and you can have everything you’ve
dreamed of.”
My mouth falls open. “Everything I’ve dreamed of ? What—what about
after that?”
“You are gifted this meeting once, Guinevere. Let’s not get greedy.” A
wispy smile blows across her face. “The next time we greet you in Avalon, you
will be sailing the boat that brings you here to stay.”
I’ll be dead. She’s saying this is a one-time opportunity.
I look down and see the Holy Grail is in my hands, clutched with white,
bloodless knuckles.
I crouch and let the frothing waves lap water into the bowl of the chalice. I
glance up with another question—
But the Lady of the Lake has vanished.
“Dammit,” I grumble, “you’ve got to stop doing that, Lady! Just like when I
first came here—”
The world superimposes on itself, implodes all around me, and rushes back
to meet me on Logres.

† † †

My eyes snap open. The Holy Grail, filled to the brim with sloshing water, is in
my hand.
Slowly, delicately, I lean over Arthur’s face. I part his cold purple lips and
pour trickles of water into his mouth.
At first, nothing happens.
So I pour more.
 Anger flares inside me, making my wings ignite with brighter fire. The aura
of swirling energy around me bursts and pops and crackles.
I overdo it, pouring the entire contents of the Holy Grail into Arthur’s
mouth, filling him with the liquid until it’s spilling past his lips, down his chin.
I blink. The tears in my eyes burn streaks of smoke down my cheeks.
Closing my eyes, I lay a hand on him.
Open my eyes—
Arthur’s lips meld from purple to pink. Color comes to his sickly green
pallor. Vigor fills the decrepitude with life.
On a gasp, his eyes pop open.
“L-Little one?”
I smile at him. Break with a sob. “Oh, Arthur.”
His voice is a rasp of steel. “Did . . . did we win?”
My smile widens. Then it falters as I look past his body to the other dead
king.
“Almost,” I say.
My knights have me surrounded, stock-still and silent as I do things no one
on this realm has ever seen. The war has ceased with Mordred and Morgan’s
deaths. The soldiers have stopped fighting, raising their weapons in surrender.
Had it gone the other way—had Morgan killed me—I have no doubt our
soldiers would be raising their hands in surrender, begging for mercy.
“Almost?” Arthur asks, confused.
I cradle the back of his head with my palm. The fire doesn’t burn him.
Then I reach out, past him, and place a hand on Mordred’s bloody chest.
“The have the tools at your disposal, Guinevere.”
“You are . . . the controller of fates.”
“The phoenix from which life regenerates.”
“You are gifted this meeting once . . . let’s not get greedy.”
I flare my nostrils.
Fuck that. If I control the fates, then why am I only given one opportunity
—one life to regenerate? One man to resurrect?
With that thought swirling through me, I draw into this new power
blooming at my core, and close my eyes once more. The energy inside me
funnels out in a flood of white fire, and I feel my wings dissipate, hissing into
the air in drafts of smoke. The vortex circling me dies. The flames licking my
insides don’t snuff out, but rather spill out.
 “Sacrifices must be made.”
If I have to sacrifice my power to do this, so be it.
It’s what I want. It’s what I can control.
When I open my eyes, Mordred is staring up at me in shocked disbelief.
The voices around me, from my knights, are a stream of murmurs and
confusion.
But I’m not confused. I refuse to let Mordred die without the chance at
atonement.
I won’t let it happen.
And the first thing he says to me when his lips part, telling me his mind is
no longer tainted, and I’ve made the right decision?
“I’m so sorry, Ever Queen. Can you ever forgive me?”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 77
Guinevere

Someone throws a cloak over my naked body. I unfold myself to stand, and
the knights at my side help up their king, as well as Mordred.
Arthur and Mordred lock eyes. There’s so much fraught emotion between
them, so much nonverbal transmission, I’m not sure what they’re about to do.
They charge into a fierce embrace.
“Son,” Arthur murmurs.
“Father,” Mordred smiles.
My cheeks flush. I’m not going to mention to them that they’re both still
naked, or what that dynamic looks like when they’re hugging so close, or what
it does to my insides when I watch it.
Lancelot drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Turns out you were more than
a heart of fire, eh?”
“You kidding?” Kay scoffs. “The whole damn woman was fire!”
I snicker. I’m so tired. My body is weak.
I give the corpse of Morgan a passing glance, then turn away and shake my
head, tightening the cloak around my body to protect my modesty.
“Your audience awaits, snoop,” Percival says, sweeping his hand away from
us.
When I turn my head, an ocean of soldiers stare wide-eyed at me—at us.
At the dead kings risen, and the woman who resurrected them. There are
soldiers from both sides of the battle lines here.
Seems I created quite a spectacle with my fiery wings and such. Or maybe
that was the dragons. Or the dark magic of Morgan le Fay wielding the Relics
Three.
There’s a lot to be shocked about.
I smile coyly at the crowd, dipping my head in deference.
 Cheers rise. At first a few, coupled with some punches into the sky, but
before long the rolling tide of hollering and whooping and cheering sweeps up
the sloping hillsides and across the plains and into the trees beyond.
The tyrannical Witch Queen is dead. No one really wanted to fight, it seems.
Many of these people were once Arthur’s subjects before becoming
Mordred’s.
Interspersed among the standing and wounded soldiers are the dead and
dying ones. Heaps of eviscerated corpses, dismembered bodies, and bleeding-
out soldiers filling the sky with moans.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I wish I could resurrect them all—just
snap my fingers and revert Camelot back to the way it was before I showed up.
Before the Rot took over. Before war took hold of this land and every
kingdom in it.
I guess I could have, if I’d made the choice to leave.
Alas, no good deed goes unpunished. I was able to bring Arthur and
Mordred back to life, but those two sapped the power of the Holy Grail from
me, and then the power roiling inside me.
I have none left.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to access that kind of radiant energy again
—if I’ll ever see the wings of golden-red fire spreading from my back.
If not . . . I’m okay with it. It did its job. I don’t see myself needing to access
that power again, now that I have my knights and possibly a new addition.
While staring at the ocean of cheering soldiers, something in the trees
behind them flutters into the sky.
It looks like the wings of a sparkling butterfly, a kaleidoscope of colors—
lilac, cerulean, neon orange, green. The wings are oversized, larger than a
bird’s, and I furrow my brow at the first set of them that takes to the air,
wondering what this could mean.
Sunlight pushes through the clouds at long last, and the first fluttering
wings reflect, radiant and vivid in the light.
When an army of wings flutters to join the first, my jaw drops. I point up,
and the soldiers slowly turn.
It’s a rainbow menagerie fluttering haphazardly into the sky. Attached to
each set of wings is a small body facing away from us. They lift higher and
higher—first one, then dozens, then hundreds, and finally thousands, filling
the sky, blotting out the mountains in the background.
 “The fairies,” Arthur says in an awestruck voice. “They’ve been
relinquished of their curse.”
Still gawking, I turn to him. “You mean those are . . .”
He nods. “The wretchkin, little one. You’ve rescued them.”
Holy shit.
“Turns out you didn’t just save us, mistress,” Mordred murmurs, “you saved
an entire species.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” My words are dreamy, because
I feel like I’m looking at a dreamscape. Something out of a fairytale, with the
fairies rising higher and higher into the sky until they disappear into the clouds.
After a few minutes, they’re gone, disappearing into the horizon.
When my head levels to the soldiers, I catch movement in the corner of my
eye—
As Arthur kneels in front of me and bows his head. “Accept my oath, Ever
Queen. For saving the realm of Logres and the kingdom of Camelot. For
saving my life, and the life of every person here.”
I don’t know what to say. Just when I was ready to stop gawking after the
fairies left, now I’m left jaw-dropped again. I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t
look too surprised—
And Mordred joins his father on his knees. Then Lancelot, Gawain,
Percival, Kay, and the thousands of soldiers in the field. All from different
kingdoms, including their kings. The kings and subjects of Camelot, Kernow,
Cameliard, Lyonesse, Gorre, Listenoise, Leudonia, Sauvage, Hibernia, Sorestan
. . . they all kneel before me like I’m their queen.
“Am I supposed to say something?” I whisper down to Arthur.
He chuckles and looks up. “Only that you accept us, and that you’ll agree to
be our Ever Queen.”
A smile tilts the corner of my mouth. “I told the Lady of the Lake I’m not
going anywhere, King Arthur. So, you’re stuck with me. I really am here
forever.”
I’m not sure what to think of that yet—too much has happened too fast
for me to unpack any of it.
But I figure I’ll get the chance soon enough.

† † †
As we march toward Camelot, the soldiers of Arthur and Mordred’s armies in
our wake, we make it to the land where the Rot of Camelot meets the plains
of Sarum. In the distance, the King’s Wood looks different. The black soot
that seems to cover every inch of the forest is falling off the branches and
boles like snow.
I’m a bit confused at the sight. “I don’t understand. How has the curse
ended? I was told it wouldn’t end even if Morgan le Fay died. The Pendragon
bloodline hasn’t ended. You two aren’t dead.”
Arthur smiles. “But we did die, didn’t we?”
Mordred chuckles. “I think you get this victory on a technicality.”
My smile stretches. “I’ll take it! It’s about time something worked out in our
favor. Jeez.”
We pass over the grassy plains, into the desert-dry, dead landscape
surrounding Camelot, where the Rot runs thickest. Now, instead of expanding
inch by inch to encroach on other lands, it is receding inch by precious inch.
Lancelot crouches, plucks something from the ground, and holds it out to
me. “Here, fireheart. Do you need anymore proof than this?”
It’s a white daisy with a brilliant yellow center, twirling between his fingers.

OceanofPDF.com
 E pi l o g u e
Guinevere

Weeks later, we’re still rebuilding Camelot. It’s going to take more than the end
of a magical curse to put this place back together. It’s going to take some
serious elbow grease and months of planning and construction. Maybe years.
At least we have everyone working together.
I mean, it’s a good sign that the construction is creating a massive number
of jobs for the people of Camelot. Other kingdoms offer assistance, but we
tell them we’re going to do it on our own—our people deserve to feel good
about building back their homes.
The numerous rebellions die down, because the change is immediate. The
people have no reason to revolt now that the king-father and king-son are
reunited, and the curse is ended. We can only go up from here.
That’s what every group of rebels wanted to begin with, anyway: change.
I’m sure they never expected the change to come in the form of a
redheaded girl from New York, sitting atop the regal chair in the Camelot
throne room.
It isn’t just Camelot that greets the swell of innovation and diversity—
almost all the kingdoms we passed are now led by women. The saying I hear
around the campfires?
“The boys had generations to fuck up Logres. Let’s give the girls a chance
to fix it.”
What we need now is nurturing, and even if I’m a stubborn, fiery, bratty
girl who wouldn’t know the first thing about nurturing a kingdom back into
relevance and prosperity, I have others to look to for assistance.
Lady Freya becomes my top advisor. She’s street smart and cunning. It only
makes sense to let her help me rebuild Camelot with a much more woman-
friendly vibe. Even if she holds a harem of no less than fifteen male
concubines at her disposal at any given time.
 No judgment here. Get yours, girl.
I’m almost halfway there myself.
Iseult also becomes an advisor, and the first female Knight of the Round
Table in history. Tristan joins her at the kneeling, joining the fellowship. Hell,
Tristan and Percy even start a band, and it’s awesome watching them duel with
lutes instead of swords.
Within days of the war ending, the armies disperse to their respective
kingdoms. A new Meeting of Kings—ahem, Meeting of Queens and Kings—is
convened, and I get the unanimous nod to protect and lead Camelot.
Percival tells me he must return with the Listenoise soldiers because he
promised his sister Dindrane that he would. It’s sad, but I was there when he
made the promise, and I don’t want Dindrane to suffer in his absence. She’s
already suffered enough.
I let him go, with a new promise: Come back to me once things are squared
away up north.
Imagine my surprise when he comes back a day later, flapping a letter in the
air and smiling broadly. “Snoop, you won’t believe who I met on the road.”
Before I can answer, he exclaims, “A messenger! Turns out Dindrane met a
nice young man after we left. One of the guards who brought her to
Leudonia, in fact. They’ve fallen in love, so she doesn’t need her big brother to
return. And, we get the alliance between Leudonia and Listenoise!”
I’m so happy for him, and Princess Dindrane, but even more happy for us.
I didn’t want to say anything, but losing even one of my guys is heartbreaking.
Gawain sees it another way. In typical fashion, he grumbles, snatches the
letter, and says, “Let me see that. Shit. He’s not lying.”
Percival elbows him, bobbing his eyebrows. “Looks like our kingdoms are
going to be brother kingdoms after all, you sourpuss.”
Gawain snorts. “More like sister kingdoms with you running the show,
sunflower.”
We all laugh.
Percival says, “I won’t be running the show, though. I’m abdicating for
Dindrane to take my place as queen.”
My brow jumps. “Are you sure, Percy? I would never want to compromise
your birthright.”
He flaps a hand and scoffs. “Please, Guin. There’s nowhere I’d rather be
than at your side.”
 “Here, here,” Kay says from the corner, lifting his chalice.
It’s filled with grape juice. He’s still off the sauce.
Gawain says, “Not to steal your thunder, sunflower, but Queen Anna might
have a new paramour as well, with King Bagdemagus. I’m happy for her. It
also means I don’t have to go back, so you’re stuck with me, little lark.”
I grin at him.
Kay says, “Fuck it, I’ll give Lady Mary the keys to the Kingdom of Sauvage
on a permanent basis. She’s been there so long, I’m sure she and Rhys know
more about leading a castle than I do, anyway.”
Lancelot joins the fray. “I never had a kingdom, but I did have a castle.
Dolorous Guard.”
“We know,” Gawain mumbles, “you never fail to remind us about it . . .”
Lancelot shoots him a glare and then smiles at me. “I have renamed it
Joyous Guard, after the inhabitants I am gifting it to.”
“Which inhabitants, Lance?” I ask from the throne, crossing one leg over
my knee. It really is a nice chair, and I’m loving how all this gamesmanship is
going in my favor. No one wants to leave. It’s the best kind of competition—a
competition for my favor and heart.
Don’t they know they already have my heart, though? That they have it gripped and
clamped like a vise, never to let go?
Lancelot’s smile broadens. “The fairies, fireheart. The ones displaced from
the war. They don’t want to stay in Gorre under King Bagdemagus’ rule,
because Morgan’s old castle is dark and dreary. So I’ve given them the land
surrounding my abandoned castle, including the castle itself. The land is
plentiful, rich, and serene there. It should be lovely for their people.”
“Oh my God, that’s perfect!” I cry out, sitting forward in my seat and
clapping.
My demonic Lone Ranger has come a long way.
He bows his head with deference, and I catch the hint of a smile there.
“I’m glad you approve, Ever Queen.”
I turn to Arthur and Mordred. “What about you two? While we’re on the
subject of offerings . . .”
Arthur shares a look with Mordred, then snorts in disbelief, in a joking sort
of way. He can’t contain the smirk on his lips. “We already gave you this realm,
little girl. Isn’t one kingdom enough for you?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Obviously not.”
 “Avalon save me,” Mordred groans from the far side of the room. “I’ve
already dealt with one murderous woman who was never satisfied and always
wanted more. More lovers, more kingdoms, more death. Is that how you’re
going to be, little mistress?”
I smile sweetly at him. “A girl has needs, Sir Mordred.”

† † †

After the first month of Camelot’s rebuild, the flowers are starting to bloom in
full. Rivers are running again, spiderwebbing through the realm. The King’s
Wood is becoming lush with thick foliage. We’re beginning to replace the
moldy, decrepit soil and underpinnings of the castle’s infrastructure with good,
sturdy stone that will last generations.
Though we have a long way to go, I feel like Camelot is no longer on the
brink of destruction.
Which brings me to something I’ve been putting off, ever since the war
ended. It makes me nervous, but I know I have to do it—there’s one loose end
that needs to be tied up before I can really move on and start my new life here.
I find him in the Hall of the Round Table, alone. I find him in the iconic
hall because I called him there, and because it seems appropriate given the
circumstances.
After walking into the room and closing the grand double doors behind
me, I turn to see him tracing his fingers over the engravings of the names on
the table.
He looks like a teenager now—older—with his wiry hair sticking out at all
ends.
At least I won’t be conversing with a snarky child.
“Merlin,” I say, and his gold eyes snap over his shoulder to locate me.
Those gold eyes, so much like Lancelot’s. Like his son’s.
“My dear, fiery maiden,” he says as way of introduction, bowing his head
curtly.
I walk up to the table and put my palms down on it. Inside, I’m a wreck.
Anxious and a bit afraid.
I bottle up that nervous energy and steel myself.
I’ve had to do worse things than this.
He stands on the opposite side of the table, hands folded behind his back.
 “I’m going to ask you a question, Merlin,” I say, “and I don’t want any
bullshit or riddles or lies. Do you understand?”
His lips curve in a knowing smirk. “I do, Ever Queen.”
Always mischievous, this one. But his mischief went too far.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
The room falls silent. Merlin’s tongue pokes his cheek. He sighs heavily. “I
need you to understand, Guinevere, that my allegiance has never been to any
single man or woman. No specific king or queen.” He inclines his chin. “Even
one as magnanimous and radiant as you.” He taps his fingers on the table, and
then they form into a fist. “My allegiance has always been to Camelot.” He
pounds his fist on the table. “To the preservation of this realm. Everything I’ve
done has been to rescue Camelot from annihilation.”
I nod once he stops. I know he’s not lying, but it still feels like a deflection.
“So, it’s nothing personal, is what you’re saying?”
“Exactly.”
I let out a soft huff of disbelief. “Imagine my audacity for taking an
attempt on my life personally.” The simmering rage inside me starts to boil. I
lean forward. “You had everything, Merlin. Everything was going your way.
Mordred and Arthur were well on their way to a duel to the death. The curse
would have ended! And yet you try to kill me using Sir Lamorak? A once-loyal
Knight of the Round Table, who would have never gotten such a dastardly
idea in his mind if you hadn’t forced it there?”
Even as my voice rises, his posture remains calm. His lips fold into a thin
line. I don’t sense any shame on his fair young face, because he doesn’t have
any to give.
His tone stays even. “It was a contingency plan, Guinevere. Nothing more.
I had to make certain the prophecy would be fulfilled.”
Oh, I get it. So it was “just business.”
I give him a wicked frown. “Even in death, Merlin, your apprentice
outshines you. I found out from Morgan le Fay with her dying words.”
“Yes, I assumed she would figure it out, and that it might get back to you. It
was a risk I was willing to take.”
“For Camelot.”
“For Camelot.”
I sigh and shake my head. “I think you’re jealous of Morgan. I think you
always have been. Of her power over shadows and darkness.”
 With a roguish smile, his face twists with contempt. “At times, I think
you’re right. Going the path of malevolent, dark magic gave her great power,
but it erased her conscience. She was a spiteful, hateful creature. No,
Guinevere, Morgan was not the one I underestimated. It was Mordred. I didn’t
think he would come to save you.”
“With me dead, and Lamorak as the culprit, and the finger pointing at
Morgan as his controller, Arthur and Mordred would have been forced to fight
each other. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are just as malevolent and wicked as your apprentice, Merlin.”
He lets out long breath, as if growing bored of this conversation. “I’m just
trying to help you understand—”
“I understand well enough, Old One. I understand you tried to kill me,
without any conscience of your own, not caring about the possible
repercussions. I understand you betrayed my trust in the most conniving,
malicious, violent, secretive way possible. Even after you inundated my mind
with all these secrets and visions and dreams. You assaulted and violated my
mind and the mind of every Guinevere before me!”
“I knew you would not be able to keep those secrets to yourself, Ever
Queen. It is not in your nature. And if you told Arthur and Mordred the truth
of their ancestry, there would be a great chance of them not fighting. The
prophecy would be unfulfilled, and the curse would never end.” He shrugs like
it was the easiest choice in the world. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
I grind my teeth, wanting to yell at him. Wanting to explode even more—
recall my fiery energy and scorch him on the spot.
But what’s the point? Merlin is set in his ways. He’s called the Old One for
a reason. And this place is in dire need of new blood. He doesn’t believe he’s done
anything wrong, and he never will. He thinks he was only acting out in the best
interest of Camelot, the kingdom he holds so dear.
He’s been around longer than any of us—seen more than any of us. To a
different person, what he’s saying might even make sense. It might be enough
for forgiveness.
I’m not in a very forgiving mood.
“What you’ve done can’t go unpunished,” I say.
He bows his chin to his chest. “I know that, lass.”
“If Arthur knew what you did, he would kill you.”
 “I know that, too.”
“I’m not going to tell him,” I say, “because there’s been too much death in
this realm. Too much heartbreak. It would kill him to know his mentor, the
Old One his father cherished, could betray him like this.”
When I say that, I see the first note of regret on his face. It’s in the quick
flicker of his eyebrow. The way his chin ticks.
“We can consider this the last secret shared between us, which I assume we
will both take to the grave,” I say.
“If that’s your wish, Guinevere. You are queen here.”
“I am exiling you from Camelot, Merlin. Banishing you forever. You can go
live in your hermit’s hut in the forest, or travel the world and grow old. You
can do whatever you want to do . . . but not here. Your time as the Keeper of
Memories has come to an end. Camelot thanks you for your service. Those
services are no longer required.”
Now, the regret is full on his face. His cheeks hollow at my declaration. For
a man who calls this place everything, it’s a death sentence. The only part of
this world that kept him going is being stripped away from him.
“I understand, Ever Queen,” he says, his voice a low rasp. He bows his
head, trying to hide his dewy eyes.
Then he turns to leave through the hall he came in, opposite me.
“Merlin,” I say.
He pauses.
“You are the Keeper of Memories. You knew the past here when no one
else did. You held onto it like gold currency. But I know the future.”
Over his shoulder, his eyebrows jump with intrigue.
I point at him. “Let me tell you about your legacy in my world. You should
be happy to know you will be remembered for centuries. Your name will be
spoken about in books and fables . . . but you will always be a murky,
unknown, vague figure. No one will ever understand the true Merlin, because
his very nature is impossible to understand, full of contradictions and mystery.
Is he malevolent? Benevolent? Good? Evil? I suppose it depends on who you
ask. Only you can decide how your legacy will be shaped. Do with that what
you will.”
He opens his mouth to ask a question, because the wizard is always curious.
I flap a hand at him. I’m not here to oblige him or do his bidding any
longer. “You’re dismissed.”
 † † †

Mordred groans as his cock throbs inside me. My thighs lift and I wrap them
around his back, squeezing against his narrow sides until his groan turns into a
grunt of barely contained need.
“Give me every part of you, Mordred,” I whisper in his ear, clawing my
hand into his disheveled brown hair. “Show the others what you’re made of.”
He seethes and rises on his strong arms framing my face. Dipping his head,
he kisses me fervently—hot and wet—while slamming away at my insides,
pelting my ass with his heavy balls with every forceful thrust.
He wraps his arm around my neck and hugs me to him, then lifts me out of
the missionary style so we both go upright. My legs bounce past his hips, and
my plump ass flattens on the tops of his thighs.
I can tell he’s waited an eon for this.
He keeps my tits pinned against his chest, and the friction of his hard pecs
against my tender, pert nipples sends a shockwave of wet heat through my
center.
His cock curves deep inside me in this sitting position, while I ride him and
we grind into each other, our moans reaching a fever pitch that carries out the
window and through the castle.
Everyone in this castle is aware of the relationship I have with my six
knights now. My six kings.
Curse or no curse, I still have needs . . . and quite a few fit, delicious men to
fill those needs whenever I want them to be filled.
It’s nice being the queen.
When Mordred can’t hold on any longer, a gasp rips from his throat and his
veins protrude along his neck.
I run my hands over his sweaty body, urging him on, coaxing him, biting
his bottom lip until I taste blood. My nails rake down his back and it sets him
off—
“Gah! Guin!”
His cum shoots into me, rope after rope, draining him as he hilts himself as
deep inside me as he’ll go.
When he’s finished, he pants and sits there, hugging and kissing me . . .
 Until a big arm wraps around him and pulls him off the bed, whipping his
cock out of me with a wet squelch and a flood of cum following.
Now that the curse has ended, the people are no longer as barren as the
land. Luckily, we’re in Camelot, which means there’s always a potion available.
The one I’m currently taking is a fertility blocker, and so far it’s worked
wonders.
Now that life is getting into a mellow groove, however, I’m not sure how
much longer I’ll be taking it.
It’s Arthur’s arm that wraps around Mordred and yanks him off the bed.
“Not bad, boy. But your turn is over.”
He fists his giant cock and steps up to the bed, smiling at my gaping,
drooling pussy.
I grin at him, then look over his shoulder at a boneless Mordred and wink.
“You’re getting better, love. Practice makes perfect.”
Mordred nods wordlessly and licks his dry lips.
Gawain slaps his bare ass with a loud clap and says, “Welcome to the
brotherhood, cousin.”
I blush at the comment, even as the other knights in the room congratulate
him and welcome him into the fold.
For how unforgiving and ruthless these men were when I first met them,
now I see them as very forgiving—yet still devious and depraved—considering
they just fought a war against this guy a few weeks ago.
Alas, times have changed.
The room is filled with me on the bed and my six men waiting their turns,
stroking their cocks in anticipation as the sex and heat cloys in the air. I know
they’ll ravage me together soon enough, like they always do, once watching
becomes too much for them to take.
I’ve come to expect it, and it never gets old.
There’s nowhere else in any world I’d rather be than in this room, on this
bed, with my wicked Knights of the Round Table.
Brothers-in-arms, fathers, sons, cousins—everyone is an equal, as they’re
meant to be, and everyone can get in on the fun. There’s no stigma for Arthur
and Mordred both loving me. There’s an understanding here that isn’t possible
anywhere else, and I love every second of it.
I know it’s not for everyone, but for me? It’s perfect.
 The only barrier to entry is me. I only require white-hot heat and sheer
pleasure and loyalty from my knights. All I want is their love, admiration,
respect, and cocks, and my knights know how to deliver those things over and
over and over again.
And who knows, like Lamorak said, maybe there are more knights out there
for me? Why stop at six?
The world is my oyster here, and it seems like I’m going to have a long time
to live my life the way I want in Camelot and Logres. I’ve made that vital
decision.
On certain days, I wonder if I’ve made the wrong one.
But on days like this . . . I know I haven’t. Days when we’re locked away,
feeling and loving each other.
On other days, I think about my world. I wonder how my snooty hostel
roommate Marcy is doing. And John Doe, my regular. Or Clay, my shitty ex. I
feel terrible for my poor mom, and hope she’s gotten the help she needs. I
wish there was a way to send her a message through worlds, to let her know
I’m okay. If she even cares.
I think about Grandma Gwenny all the time, and the events that led me to
this miraculous, wild place. I ponder what happened to Glastonbury Abbey,
and those epic ruins, and wonder who now owns them since I’ve vanished.
Some day in the future, hundreds of years from now, it will be me in the
ground at the abbey, buried alongside my legendary Ever King.
So, until then, I ask myself again, Have I made a horrible mistake staying here,
choosing to live my life this way?
I look around the bed at my six knights, at the hunger in their eyes, at their
perfectly sculpted bodies and their grins of pure lust, and the absolute
devotion and obsession they have for me . . .
And I scoff.
Nah. I’ll be just fine.

THE END

†
OceanofPDF.com
 A Note on Historicity and Canon

The most common criticism I received from readers of this series (other than
the over-the-top sex scenes many people didn’t expect) is about the language,
and my reluctance to address it. It’s valid criticism, so I’ll address it now.
The language is where I took the most creative liberties in writing this
trilogy. No, a girl from modern New York City would not have been able to
converse so effortlessly with people from Middle Ages Europe. The characters
would not have been speaking American English in Camelot, but rather
Brittonic (a Celtic language and early version of Welsh), or possibly Latin by
royalty, given the Roman influence of the times. These people lived at a time
when Old Brythonic was splitting into Breton, Cornish, Welsh, Pictish, and
other languages and dialects, so it’s difficult to say with certainty. But it
certainly wasn’t modern English.
All I can say is this is not historical fiction. It’s fantasy romance. I opted for
a smoother reading experience by using a common language everyone could
communicate with. I didn’t want stilted dialogue or communication. I wanted
readability. And I had to sacrifice linguistic authenticity in order to achieve
that. So that’s that on that.
There is no singular “canon” regarding Arthurian lore. It’s a mishmash of
different stories and legends from different regions and countries that often
contradict each other. Hell, even the maps and locations of the kingdoms
change. For instance, if we’re looking at “historical locations” of where
Camelot might have existed, it could be in Caerleon or Monmouthshire in
Wales, or, in England, Cadbury Castle in Somerset, Tintagel Castle in
Cornwall, Winchester, Cirencester, among others. And Glastonbury, of course,
which has a long tradition of being the location of the “Isle of Avalon” where
Arthur went after his death. In 1191, monks of Glastonbury Abbey claimed
they found his grave, though many believe it was propaganda to put
Glastonbury on the map for tourism. I reckon you could get yourself in a
heated argument with experts or locals from any one of these places over a
beer, all of them with sensible, verifiable facts claiming Arthur’s true heritage.
There are some commonalities in these stories, though, with common
themes that stick out in multiple threads, such as: the Holy Grail, Excalibur,
Mordred being the downfall of King Arthur, Lancelot being the downfall of
King Arthur, Guinevere being the downfall of King Arthur. (You might be
noticing a theme here—most of these romantic stories are tragedies.)
I cherry-picked stories from different eras to suit my needs. The plotlines in
these books are all mine, but I borrowed many themes, isolated events, and
characters. Oftentimes, I took “historical events” and turned them on their
heads.
The original version of this afterward is essay-length and got a bit into the
weeds, so I’ll stop here. Maybe I’ll post the original in its entirety on my
website. In it, I expose many of the storylines I borrowed from canon, how I
changed them and shuffled them around, and how I made them my own. This
series has become so thick (over 1500 pages) that I know I’ve forgotten events
I borrowed in these books. The research I put into writing this series was vast
and time-consuming, and I loved every second of it. You should see the
hundreds of tabs I still have open even as I write this, and the various books
and films strewn about my house.
I guess all of this is to say there’s no wrong way to write a King Arthur
epic. The lore is so rich and varied that the possibilities are limitless, which is
what makes it such a fun myth to tackle and engage with. The whole premise
of this series began as a “what if ” question: “What if it wasn’t Lancelot versus
Arthur vying for Guinevere’s love . . . but Arthur and Lancelot and Mordred
and every Knight of the Round Table becoming obsessed with her?”
I am a why choose/reverse harem writer at heart, after all, and I felt the
stories of the Knights of the Round Table were ripe for this trope.
I’m so happy to have spent the better part of a year enmeshed in these lush
stories (and many more years before that when you consider I’ve been a fan of
Arthurian legends since I was a kid). I’ve tried to make them my own in a
smutty, dark, over-the-top fun way, while also encapsulating some of the
brilliance and themes of gallantry and chivalry permeating the lore. I mean,
who doesn’t want chivalrous, protective, obsessed knights fighting for them?
I hope you’ve enjoyed what I’ve come up with!
Who knows, maybe one day “Camelot Untold” will be enshrined in the
canon of King Arthur . . . but for the sake of all the scholars, academics, and
experts who take this mythology very, very seriously . . . I sure fucking hope
not!
With love,
KC Kingmaker

OceanofPDF.com
 †
I want to thank all my fans and readers. You make writing these books
possible.

†
Join my newsletter for updates on new releases, promos, and free
goodies!

†
If you haven’t gotten a chance, check out my earlier reverse harem
PNR series, “Briarwitch Academy,” to learn all about Dawn Rose and
her rowdy cast of friends and lovers:
Check out Briarwitch Academy right here!
†
Then read about Levia Sunfall and her steamy dragon shifter mates:
Take a look at Dragon Shifter Dominion here!

†
Finally, my newest dark academia RH series and a spin-off of
Briarwitch Academy that took a life of its own, starring Coralia
Hargrave and her mates:
Check out Shadowblade Academy here!

And finally, if you enjoyed this book and would consider leaving a
review on Amazon, I’d be forever grateful!

OceanofPDF.com
 About the Author

KC Kingmaker lives in San Diego and has been writing and reading fantasy
and romance for years.

Briarwitch Academy was KC’s first foray into paranormal romance, trying to
bridge the genres to make something steamy, funny, mysterious, action-packed,
and most of all, fun!

Dragon Shifter Dominion came after, trying to meld that same steaminess with
traditional fantasy, to create a romantic fantasy explosion!

Shadowblade Academy, KC’s third series, is technically a spin-off of Briarwitch

Academy, though it can be read as a standalone series. It has just as much
intrigue and mystery and steam as the others, but things get a bit darker.

Camelot Untold, KC’s fourth series, is a deep, dark dive into the rich lore of
Arthurian legends. It’s reverse harem fantasy romance.

OceanofPDF.com