Tina tilted her head back, looking up at the morning sky. The rain finally moved out after she had returned to her rooms. She hadn’t expected to run into Genesis at the training field. He usually spent early mornings running the walls—something she’d quietly observed over the past few days. She wondered what cause the changed in his morning routine. She pulled her gaze from the sky and frowned at the stone ground. She knew the reason. Her half-assed confession the other day. She had been rambling and ended up telling him the truth about her.

  “Are you alright, dear cousin,” Rosemary asked from her right. Tina drew her attention to Rosemary. The Clover heiress wore a dark silver dress paired with bright silver accessories. Her strawberry-blond hair was pinned into a strange bun—one Tina was certain Rose’s maid had spent hours perfecting. A silver-colored hat rested easily atop her head. Rosemary adjusted the wide brim, trying to keep the morning sun out of her eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m alright, Rose,” Tina said, “I’m just thinking.”

  “Oh? That’s a dangerous past time,” Rose’s lips twitched into a playful smirk.

  “So I have heard,” Tina returned the look as her eyes glinted with amused. A flicker of movement caught her eye—just enough to make her freeze. She could have sworn it was Ralph, stepping from a side room in a guard’s uniform. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her stomach dropped, and for one breathless moment, all she could hear was the rush of her own pulse, thundering. However, when she blinked, Ralph had disappeared and the guard turned away, walking down the stone hallway. She pushed the image away. Not now. Focus on Rose. On normal things. Like flowers.

  “Are you still thinking about those flowers from last night,” Rose’s voice held a teasing tone, looking at Tina.

  Tina didn’t answer right away. The image of the bouquet still lingered in her mind. Not just the arrangement, but the feeling it left behind. A whisper. A question. A quiet plea without a name.

  Stay.

  It hadn’t been loud or desperate. It had simply been there—woven into the white camellias and starflowers, tucked into the curve of lilac petals. Someone wanted her to stay in Camelot. And that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. She didn’t belong in Camelot. Her plan had been clear: fulfill her duty, then leave before the Court sank its claws in too deep. But the bouquet whispered of roots. Of possibility. Of someone watching her—not to control her, but to know her. Tina inhaled softly. She didn’t know what unsettled her more—the possibility that the bouquet was romantic, or the fact that part of her didn’t immediately dismiss it.

  Back in college, she’d watched friends leap from heartbreak to rebound, clinging to anyone who made them feel seen. Most of those relationships burned out as quickly as they began. Tina had promised herself she wouldn’t fall into that pattern. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  But the flowers…

  They were thoughtful. And that’s what made them dangerous. Her fingers twitched at her side. They could be used as a way to get her to stay if she figured out who sent them.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself, taking a deep breath. You’re leaving.

  “Ah, Lady Armstrong. And Lady Clover,” came a smooth voice behind them. “Should I be honored or concerned to find you both unattended this close to a royal event?”

  Tina didn’t need to turn around to recognize the voice. She exhaled through her nose, schooling her expression into something neutral as bemusement flashed through her. The two cousins turned to look at the Loyal Knight.

  Rosemary greeted him first, her voice light. “Sir Lancelot, always so dramatic. The Courtyard is hardly dangerous.”

  “You’ve clearly never seen the seating scuffles that happen before a Choosing Ceremony,” he said with mock gravity. His eyes twinkled.

  Tina rolled her eyes, though a hint of amusement tugged at the corner of her mouth, noticing he wore more causal style clothing instead the more professional style of a Knight on duty. “If a fight breaks out, I’ll be sure to hide behind your polished boots.”

  “By all means,” he replied smoothly. “They were cleaned just for you.” He gave her a wink.

  Lancelot offered his arms to them. Rose took his right within her left and Tina sighed before she slipped her right arm within his left, allowing him to fall into step between them, his stride matching theirs.

  “Did you also shine your armor for me, or just the boots?” Tina asked, arching an eyebrow, glancing up at him. She got a sense there was something he wasn’t informing them about. She wondered what it was.

  “I was told ladies of high station appreciate a knight who sparkles,” he said, glancing sidelong at her. “Of course, I didn’t realize I’d be competing with bouquets and mystery suitors today.” Tina blinked. Was he being serious? He couldn’t be serious.

  Rosemary perked up instantly, grabbing his arm with both of her hands. Lancelot turned his attention onto her. She looked up at him with a gleeful expression, “Ah, so you’re still trying to figure out who sent them, too?”

  Lancelot raised a brow, “I merely appreciate well-chosen flowers. It’s not every day a bouquet makes a lady hesitate to leave Camelot.”

  Tina shot him a sidelong glance, “Who says I’m hesitating?”

  “No one,” he said innocently. He paused then went on, “But the flowers are still on your nightstand.”

  Tina snapped her head around and sent him a glare, “And how do you know that?!”

  “I make a point to stay informed,” Lancelot said. “It’s part of being charming and competent—both at once, an exhausting burden.”

  Tina let out a dry laugh. “Truly, we must all weep for your struggles.”

  “Oh, please do,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “Tears make for excellent polish.”

  They reached the Courtyard, where the stage for the Choosing Ceremony dominated the far side. Rows of tables and cushioned benches lined the viewing area, already half filled with nobility in their finest silks and jewels.

  Lancelot gestured gallantly toward a corner table beneath a stone arch where the sunlight broke gently through. “Shall I secure our seats, or will you test my chivalry and make me fight for them?”

  Rosemary giggled. “Let him earn it.”

  Tina raised a hand with mock solemnity. “To battle, Sir Lancelot.”

  “With honor and flair,” he declared, and moved ahead to clear the table with a charming smile and a few subtle gestures to a servant. Within moments, the space was theirs.

  As they sat, Tina glanced at the stage, her gaze drawn to the Holy Sword glinting in the sunlight.

  Lancelot leaned in slightly, voice lower now. “Do you think the sword will choose today?”

  Tina’s answer caught in her throat. Her eyes flicked toward the glimmer of steel—and the tension returned.

  “I think… the sword’s waiting for something,” she said. “Or someone.”

  Belladonna’s gaze swept over the gathered court, and she hummed in cold approval. Of course they were all here—none of them would dare miss the sacred farce that was the Choosing Ceremony. So much posturing, all draped in the excuse of tradition. There were days she wished the whole wretched ritual had been abolished centuries ago. But no—Camelot clung to it like a child to its blanket. Without it, she suspected the kingdom would unravel within the year, too afraid to move forward without magic’s blessing.

  She had once tried to abolish the ritual—outlawing magic through her husband’s rule—but it hadn’t gone as planned. The only thing she had managed to do was drive the magical folk except for Merlin and Morgana out of the Kingdom. She would love to destroy magic out of this world, but she knew her history. The world was built on magic means. However, she would take what she could get and work on the rest.

  She spotted Arthur as he stepped into the Courtyard and strolled to the Thrones. He should have been King. He would have been a great King, too, she mused. He had been taught by the finest scholars Camelot could offer—military strategy, diplomacy, even financial literacy. No expense had been spared. And still, the sword had turned its back on him. The court whispered of unworthiness, of fate and failure, but Belladonna heard every word. He was Uther’s blood—her blood—and yet not even legacy could sway the sword’s will. Her blood boiled at that.

  Belladonna had always believed that some traditions were worth preserving—and others should have been buried centuries ago. The Choosing Ceremony belonged in the latter. A relic of magic-worship, propped up by fools too afraid to let go of myth. The Crown should have passed from father to son, as it did in every other kingdom across the island. If that had been the law here, the House of Drake would have ruled Camelot for generations. That thought didn’t bother her. What did unsettle her, however, struck a moment later: if the Magi had done away with the Ceremony after Arthur Pendragon’s death, the Crown might now rest with the White Hall House. Belladonna scowled.

  Queen Susan claimed her seat, next to Belladonna. She muttered “good morning’ to her former mother in law and turned her attention to the gathering crowd.

  Queen Vivien followed, her steps measured but dignified. She lowered herself into her chair with the grace of a woman who had outlived crowns and wars alike. She offered no greeting—only a sigh, and a slow shake of her head as the murmurs from below echoed upward.

  A part of Belladonna was counting the days. Once Vivien passed, she would be the Eldest Queen—the matriarch in title and presence. It was a hollow crown, perhaps, but one she intended to wear all the same. The younger queens deferred to Vivien with their simpering tones and respectful nods, but Belladonna saw through it. They worshiped age only when it held power. Once Vivien was gone, that reverence would shift. It would be hers—and this time, she would not let it slip through her fingers.

  Vivien, for all her poise and scars, had placed far too much faith in the likes of Merlin and Morgana. Magical creatures masquerading as advisers—Belladonna had tried, more than once, to expel them from court during her rule. But they were too deeply rooted in Camelot’s foundation, too beloved by the people and too feared by the nobles. She could not move them without turning the court against her. Vivien, of course, had praised their “wisdom.” Belladonna had called it what it was: unnatural influence wrapped in robes and riddles.

  Of course, the moment couldn’t remain hers for long.

  Kalliope appeared with all the polished grace of youth—and the shadow of scandal trailing close behind. Belladonna’s jaw tightened, though she kept her face composed. The youngest of the Queens, still radiant with the glow of pregnancy and—worse—untouchable under the excuse of delicate condition.

  Kalliope settled herself into the High Queen’s throne like it still belonged to her. Belladonna’s expression didn’t flicker, but inside, her stomach twisted. The girl had nerve—parading that pregnancy like a victory flag, no husband in sight, no name to pin to the child. Only whispers, and worse: sympathy.

  Everyone remembered her tearful little confession at the mourning dinner. How she and Uther hadn’t shared a bed in years. How he’d fathered a bastard elsewhere. Belladonna hadn’t missed the timing of it—just enough sorrow to appear tragic, just enough truth to make her seem brave. And now? She carried another man’s child and sat uncontested until another King was chosen.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She spotted them the moment they entered—Merlin and Morgana, drifting into the courtyard like summoned phantoms. Cloaked in ceremonial robes, carrying the same ancient airs as always. The Court still hadn’t fully quieted, but their arrival would ensure it soon did. Of course it would. The old magi held more sway than any living Queen, and they hadn’t ruled a day in their lives. She frowned. Lady Morgana might have ruled in her brother’s stand while he was on the war front as a Princess, but never as a Queen.

  Belladonna’s jaw tightened as they approached their seats below the raised platform.

  “This whole ceremony is a waste of time,” she muttered under her breath. “The Crown should pass through blood, not superstition.”

  Eyes flickering to meet Belladonna’s eyes, Morgana, ever the calm counterweight, replied without missing a step. “It is not superstition. It is the will of the Fates. The sword chooses—not for legacy, but for destiny.”

  Belladonna scoffed. It was downright unnerving for them to do that. She knew they used magic to projected their voices to certain people if they wished. “Destiny doesn’t feed starving farmers or hold back armies at the border. Legacy builds foundations. A sword stuck in stone does nothing but delay what needs doing.”

  Merlin’s voice, as patient as ever, slid in beside Morgana’s, whispering in Belladonna’s ear, “It was Arthur’s last wish that the sword decide. He saw firsthand what inherited crowns could do to a kingdom. Too many born to rule, but unfit to reign.”

  Belladonna’s lips curled, her eyes flickering to the sword locked in a large piece of rock. “And what if the one the sword chooses is just as unfit? Just because some mystical artifact glows or sings or shudders doesn’t mean the kingdom is safe.”

  “No,” Morgana said gently, “but it means the kingdom is heard.”

  Salazar’s crimson eyes drifted over the courtyard. At last, every courtier had arrived—silks rustling, whispers hissing like dry leaves. He wasn’t surprised to see the number of Paladins had increased after yesterday’s incident with the wolf demon. His eyes paused briefly on the mysterious Lady Valentina Armstrong. She sat with her cousin, Lady Clover, and Sir Lancelot. The Knight was clearly trying to hold her attention, but failing; she continually pulled her cousin into the conversation or glanced restlessly around the courtyard. At first glance, she appeared just another misplaced noblewoman caught in Camelot’s tedious games, yet something set her apart from the gossiping courtiers. Perhaps it was her rebellious streak or her uncommon respect for non-humans. Either way, House Armstrong might finally have produced someone worthy of true respect.

  He refocused on his purpose and drew a slow, measured breath. Soon, he would attempt what no vampire in living memory had dared: lay his hand on Camelot’s Holy Sword and let the ancient steel decide his worth.

  He remembered vividly the day the Death Mage Rowena cast her curse. The rubies on her black dress had gleamed like freshly spilled blood, a cruel irony given the curse’s demand for innocent blood. His adoptive father, Cain, had taken particular pleasure in slaughtering those captives Rowena, Sir Robert, and their troops had seized. Salazar felt certain those innocents still haunted the Wraithspire Mountains.

  His gaze shifted to the semicircle of thrones upon the raised dais. Queen Belladonna sat stiff?backed among her peers. Salazar’s lips curled slightly. If the sword so much as trembled beneath his touch, the old woman’s heart might simply stop beating.

  He allowed himself a brief moment of amusement at Queen Kalliope’s obvious condition. Had anyone else noticed yet that the child’s father was a non-human? The revelation would doubtlessly stir delightful chaos when the time came. He looked forward to witnessing it.

  Lord Merlin stepped forward, coming to a stop beside the Holy Sword. The courtyard fell immediately silent, all eyes on him.

  “Thank you all for returning to the second day of the Public Choosing,” Merlin began, his voice steady but weary. “Each person who steps forward today will have a fair chance at the Holy Sword. You must pull at the blade three times before you are declared unworthy. Once deemed unworthy, you will not have another opportunity until the next Choosing.”

  Salazar’s gaze lingered briefly on Pope Innocent and the two men flanking him: Bishop John, the gentle mask of faith, and Paladin Peter, the Church’s blade sheathed in righteous zeal. The Church had taken Cain from him centuries ago, driven a stake of silver and scripture into the heart of the only father he’d known. Seeing them seated in comfortable authority stirred old, familiar shadows within him—shadows he’d learned to leash long ago.

  Patience, he reminded himself. Their reckoning could wait. Today belonged to the sword.

  “Lord Merlin,” Salazar called out, stepping deliberately forward. His voice, clear and commanding, echoed across the stone courtyard. “I invoke the Right to Rule by the Holy Sword.”

  The courtyard plunged into sudden silence. Birds ceased their chirping; even the wind itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Every set of eyes turned toward him, disbelief and shock spreading through the gathered courtiers like a quiet ripple. Salazar continued, unruffled. “I seek to be judged worthy to rule Camelot as its King.”

  He moved forward slowly, confidently, through the crowded tables, feeling the weight of hundreds of stunned gazes upon him. The sunlight struck his pale skin, its fierce heat rolling harmlessly away as his blood-runes flared to life. Each carved mark pulsed faintly, shimmering silver and crimson, a living tapestry of magic guarding him from the sun’s deadly rays.

  Lord Merlin turned fully to face him, expression carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed weary caution and surprise. “And who are you, who claims the right to be tested by the Holy Sword?”

  Salazar’s lips curled into a faint smirk. Merlin knew precisely who stood before him, but tradition demanded formality. The Battle Mage wasn’t expecting him to step forward to be tested, either. It was amusing. “I am Lord Salazar of House Dracula,” he replied smoothly, voice resonating through the silence. “Emperor of Crescent Island, Son of Cain.”

  A single word, spoken in shocked realization, shattered the silence like glass. Someone—perhaps a young noble, perhaps a fearful cleric—whispered sharply, “Daywalker!”

  At once, murmurs surged like storm waves, confusion mingling with awe, fear tangling with fascination.

  Salazar’s gaze never wavered from Merlin’s. “Shall we proceed, Lord Merlin?” he asked quietly, calmly, fully aware that every heartbeat in the courtyard now beat faster, every breath quickened with anticipation. Some of the lords lend forward in their seats, watching closely.

  Merlin inclined his head ever so slightly, voice controlled, grave. “Approach, Lord Salazar. The Holy Sword awaits your judgment.”

  Lady Armstrong’s voice seemed to echo through the air as she spoke, “Daywalker? So, I was right. He is fucking vampire.”

  “Unfortunately, yes, Lord Salazar is the High Vampire Lord,” Sir Lancelot replied, “I have heard many stories about him while growing up. There are a small group of people who could defeat him if he chooses to fight - Lord Merlin, Lady Morgana, High Lord Paladin Peter.”

  Salazar resisted the urge to snort as he stopped before the Holy Sword. Merlin and Morgana were children compare to him. Paladin Peter, on the other hand, was a newborn baby. He would allow them to think the Magi and the Paladin could defeat him. He doubt anyone within the Castle now could defeat him. He didn’t train for over 2500 years to be defeated by a weaker being.

  “Thank you, Lord Merlin,” he bowed his head to the Battle Mage before he reached out and wrapped a hand around the hilt. The courtyard fell silent as they all watched Salazar. He tugged up on the hilt. It didn’t move. His eyes flickered to Merlin.

  “Twice more, Lord Salazar,” Merlin announced.

  This time, Salazar decided to put more effect into it and placed his other hand around the hilt before he pulled upward. It didn’t move. He turned his attention to the half-fae.

  “Once more, if you don’t mind,” The Battle Mage said.

  Salazar smirked.

  Tina felt a sudden, creeping sense of dread as she caught sight of Lord Salazar’s smirk. It was slow, controlled, and deeply unsettling—as if he knew something terrible the rest of them had yet to realize.

  Above, the previously clear sky was rapidly devoured by angry, dark-gray clouds, rolling in swiftly and casting the entire courtyard into premature twilight. She tasted ozone sharply on the back of her tongue, a bitter, metallic warning. Thunder murmured distantly, low at first, then louder, as though announcing the arrival of something inevitable and dangerous.

  The wind shifted abruptly, rushing colder and rougher across her exposed skin. Goosebumps erupted along her arms. She shivered slightly. There was something primal and dangerous hidden within the storm. Her heartbeat quickened as leaves, dust, and loose petals spiraled upward in chaotic swirls, carried by the mounting wind as it howled. She spotted a couple of hats flying up. Her own red hair whipped around, coming loose from its confines.

  Tina glanced upward again. The dark-gray clouds had deepened now—black as night, churning with unnatural fury. In their center, a vortex slowly began to form, spinning gently at first, then faster and faster. Tina’s breath caught sharply as she realized exactly what she was witnessing: a twister, unnatural and tightly controlled, summoned by a power she sensed. It was on the level of a SS class demon. She tried to shallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

  Her gaze flickered sideways toward Rose, whose face was pale, transfixed by Salazar with a strange mix of horror and intense curiosity. Next to her, Lancelot’s fingers gripped the table edge so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. His face remained carefully composed, ever the disciplined knight, but Tina saw the panic he tried desperately to conceal—his eyes were wide and wild with silent alarm.

  At the courtyard’s center, Salazar stood utterly still, his red eyes blazed fiercely. He stared at Merlin. His pale skin glowed silver with the craved runes. The vortex tightened, spiraling inward, the wind howling its defiance. Merlin’s robes whipped around him as he stood close to the Holy Sword, his expression grim yet unafraid, an ancient sentinel bracing against the storm.

  Tina felt her chest constrict. This wasn’t merely spectacle—this was power. Power of a kind that could tear Camelot apart if left unchecked. Her own pulse echoed in her ears, her own latent magic stirring in response to Salazar’s show of force, almost like a challenge.

  “Gods above,” she whispered, mostly to herself, fingers digging into her palms. “What is he doing?”

  But in her heart, Tina already knew—this was Salazar’s warning, his declaration: The storm is mine to command. Cross me at your peril.

  Tina turned her gaze to the court, judging their expressions. Across the courtyard, her gaze landed on the raised dais where the Queens sat. Belladonna gripped the arms of her seat so tightly her jeweled rings dug into the wood. Her expression was thunderous, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear. Beside her, Queen Vivien sat unnervingly still, her chin slightly lifted as though bracing herself for an outcome she’d long prepared for. She didn't blink.

  Susan, on the other hand, had gone pale. Her fingers trembled at her lap, and Tina saw her lips moving—softly, rhythmically. A prayer. Maybe for herself. Maybe for The Queens. Maybe for all of them.

  And Kalliope… Tina's breath caught at the sight. The youngest queen cradled her belly protectively, her other hand pressed against her chest. Fear radiated from her in silent waves, but she held her seat.

  Tina’s eyes shifted toward the other end of the platform where the Pope and his bodyguards sat. Pope Innocent sat rigid, eyes locked on Salazar like a hawk waiting for a snake to strike. His mouth was a thin line, unmoving, but the rage behind his gaze was unmistakable. He made no motion to rise, no gesture of panic. Only judgment. Only fury.

  Beside him, Bishop John leaned forward, lips parted just slightly—not in fear, but wonder. Tina could tell he was watching Salazar differently than the others. Not as a monster, but as a question waiting to be answered.

  Then there was Paladin Peter.

  He had half-risen from his chair, one hand already resting on the hilt of his sword, his body tense and ready. His eyes never left Salazar. Tina could almost feel his barely-contained instinct to strike—to put an end to the storm and the vampire who summoned it. It was Bishop John who stilled him with a single, firm hand on his arm. The two men exchanged no words, but Peter sat again. Reluctantly.

  All around them, nobles whispered and squirmed. Tina caught snatches of panicked murmurs:

  “—he’s summoning a twister—”

  “—that’s Storm Magic—”

  “Could he be the one who summoned the storm, the other day?”

  “—why doesn’t Merlin stop him?”

  “—blasphemy—”

  The air pulsed with electric pressure. The Sword stood unmoving, the only calm thing in a world gone breathless.

  Tina glanced at Merlin.

  He hadn’t flinched. His robes whipped in the rising wind, and though he stood with the Holy Sword at his side, he made no move to stop what was coming. He watched, eyes narrowed, not with fear—but with something colder.

  Calculation.

  Tina turned her attention to Lady Morgana. From the edge of the platform, Morgana did not rise.

  While others reacted in shock or braced themselves for violence, she remained seated, still and regal. Her robes—dark violet with threads of starlight—billowed gently in the wind, untouched by panic. Her fingers moved across her lap in a slow, subtle pattern, tracing the outline of an old rune in the fabric or air—a ward, perhaps, or a silent invocation.

  The flicker of blue flame dancing at Morgana’s fingertips, quickly extinguished before it could spark alarm. Whatever spell Morgana was preparing, it wasn’t meant to be cast—only held at the ready. Her gaze remained fixed on Salazar. But it wasn’t the stare of judgment. It was one of recognition.

  Tina narrowed her eyes. Morgana looked almost… curious.

  Morgana tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something no one else could hear—the language of storm, the rumble of ancient blood magic, or the pull of the Holy Sword itself. She whispered something under her breath, inaudible even in the hush of the courtyard.

  Tina could read her lips only barely: “Storm-born. Not alone.”

  The implication sent a chill down her spine.

  Morgana’s eyes—piercing and unblinking—momentarily shifted to Tina.

  And for the briefest heartbeat, Tina wondered if the legendary enchantress knew something Tina didn’t.

  It stopped. Tina looked at Salazar, Merlin, and the Holy Sword. The dark storm clouds rolled away. The howling wind died to a gentle breeze. She watched as the glowing runes on Salazar’s skin faded away. The overwhelming power radiating from Salazar in waves faded away.

  “You have been unworthy by the Holy Sword, Lord Salazar of the Crescent Island,” Merlin announced. He didn’t sound upset at the display of storm magic. “Thrice Heard and Witness.”

  “Thrice Heard and Witness,” Lord Salazar stepped back, letting go of the Holy Sword with a bow of his head.

  “Thrice Heard and Witness,” Morgana repeated from her seat.

  Nobody else repeated the phase. They all watched Salazar as he turned and took a step away from the Holy Sword. Tina sensed a raise in power coming from somewhere. Out of the corner of her eye, Lady Morgana rose to her feet with an alarmed expression. Merlin jerked to look at the Holy Sword. Salazar twisted on his heel to face the Holy Sword with a wide eyed expression before he vanished. The red gem sitting in the hilt of the Sword glowed.

  There was a loud crashing sound. One of the Courtyard’s walls shook. There was several cries coming from the top of the wall as guards clutched the stone wall. Heads turned to see Salazar implanted in the stone wall. The silver runes glowed, and Salazar moaned before he peeled himself from the creator he made. He fell a few feet to the stone floor and cracked his neck. He spoke, laughing slightly, “Well, at least it was honest.”

  A stunned silence followed Salazar’s dry remark. The scent of scorched magic still lingered in the air, mingling with the tang of ozone and old stone.

  Tina couldn’t look away. Salazar’s smile was faint, but his eyes burned—not with anger, not even humiliation, but something deeper. Something dangerous. The way he’d looked at the Sword before it launched him—it hadn’t been fear. It had been understanding.

  He dusted off his scorched coat and ran a hand through his black hair, red eyes flicking toward the dais. For one breathless moment, no one moved.

  Then murmurs began.

  “They say the Sword only reacts to threats…”

  “Why did it attack after the trial?”

  “That wasn’t rejection. That was punishment.”

  Tina could feel the shift ripple through the Court like a tremor. Queen Belladonna looked both smug and unsettled. Vivien had gone completely still, her knuckles white on the arms of her seat. Kalliope hadn’t stopped clutching her belly. The Churchmen—especially Paladin Peter—were already rising from their seats, murmuring orders to nearby guards.

  Bishop John reached for Peter’s arm again, but this time, the Paladin shook him off.

  Merlin’s voice cut through the growing noise as he turned, facing the members of the court, the Queens, and the Clergymen. “Let none forget—he was permitted to try.” The statement was calm, but his jaw was tight. “The Sword has spoken. He was found unworthy. He has accepted the judgment.”

  Salazar raised a single brow, clearly amused. “Accepted, yes. Though I admit… I was hoping for a more elegant farewell.”

  “You should count yourself lucky,” Morgana said from her platform. Her voice was hard as steel. “That was mercy.”

  Salazar chuckled and bowed, first to Merlin, then to Morgana, then—slowly—to the Queens.

  When he straightened, his eyes flicked to Tina. Just a glance. But her breath caught. There was weight in it. Recognition. A Promise. He winked at her. Her heart leaped into her throat. Then, in a rush of shadow and wind, Salazar disappeared into a column of bats, dissolving into the sky where the clouds had once been.

  “Maybe you were right, Sir Lancelot,” Rose spoke up, drawing Tina’s and Lancelot’s attention onto her, “The Courtyard could be a dangerous place.” Tina blinked then again as she thought about what Rose said. She turned her gaze to Lancelot who look stun, not understanding what Rose meant. “I am for one glad you decided to escort us here today.”

  It clicked. The conversation from the hallway where Lancelot had ran into them. Tina giggled, pressing her lips tight and her shoulders shook. Lancelot’s eyes brightened as he made the connection as well.

  “I’m glad I was of some service, today, my ladies,” Lancelot winked at Rose. Rose flushed with amusement.

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