Pausing on the road leading into the village, Tristan stared at up the dark storm clouds with raised eyebrows. He turned to Mordred and Steven, saying, “Those weren’t there a moment ago, were they?”

  “Nope,” Mordred replied, looking at the other two knights. He paled as he looked behind them. Tristan followed Mordred’s gaze and faced the castle. Mordred went on, “Must be that mysterious Storm Mage the Magi were hunting down. I heard even Lord Salazar was looking into it.” He shrugged and turned away from the castle. It was obvious he didn’t want to become involved with what was happening inside the Castle.

  “There is an unknown storm mage within Camelot,” Steven commented, looking at the storm clouds and glanced over his shoulder, “My, my, we miss all of the fun. After all, orders are orders” He followed Mordred, wondering through the standing still crowd. Tristan shook his head and walked after them. They had stepped out of the various buildings when the wind began to howl.

  “Personal, I would deal with this then get sent into the Dead End Forest to deal with that Non-human tribe I found,” Tristan grumbled, “My pride as a Knight is still smarting after being caught like that.” He kicked the ground and sent a small rock skidding along the dirt road. He followed the two knights. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his attention at the task at hand.

  “From my understanding, there was nothing you could have done, Tristan,” Mordred argued, “I mean you were outnumbered, facing a non-human magi, and had a woman with you. You did what you could have done in that situation.”

  “I’m sure Lancelot could have handle it better,” Tristan muttered, darkly.

  “I doubt that,” Steven argued, “He would have been in the water with the Lady..” He cleared his throat and gave Tristan and Mordred a meaningful look, “Busy with up close and personal protection.”

  They chuckled before they felt it. Something had changed. The joking faded, and the wind carried more than just the scent of wet stone. It carried unease. Tristan could feel it crawling under his armor. The shaded road brightened. The violent knight glanced over his shoulder at the castle. The storm clouds had retreated. A part of the storm moved out over the ocean and he saw a lightening strike touched the water. He didn’t pity the fishermen out there right now. The storm would be a nasty one to sail through. He could have sworn a large wave appeared and slammed back down onto the surface of the ocean.

  Tristan adjusted the grip on the hilt of his sword before he rested his lower arm on it as the three knights strode down the village road leading into the main market square. The stone path beneath their boots was damp from the earlier rain, but it wasn’t the slick cobbles that made him uneasy. He couldn’t pinpoint it. It was something in the air making him feel like that.

  The three knights hadn’t even rounded the corner to the square before Tristan noticed how the villagers were acting. They gathered in small clusters, their voices hushed. He spotted a mother clutching her child beside a building, her face pale with fright . A baker stood outside of his bakery, flour still dusting his hands, staring up at the castle, waiting for something to happen.

  The howling storm had passed, but it left its mark. People’s shoulders hunched, flinching at the wind blowing stronger then a gust. Their gazes darted between the castle and their tasks, as if unsure which held the greater threat

  “What in the hells happened up there?” Steven muttered beside him, eyes scanning the crowd. “These people look like they saw a demon.”

  “They might’ve,” Mordred said darkly, adjusting his cloak as a breeze tugged at the hem. “Word is a vampire made an attempt at the Sword. The twister was his doing.”

  “How did you hear that?,” Tristan frowned, gaze sweeping across the marketplace.

  “Word spreads fast when it comes from the servants,” Mordred shrugged.

  Tristan shook his head, “We should report back to the castle. If something serious happened, we shouldn’t be patrolling blind.”

  Mordred opened his mouth to agree, but Steven beat him to it. “Too late for that.” He nodded subtly toward a group of villagers who had just spotted them. Eyes widened. Fingers pointed. A hush fell over that pocket of the crowd as whispers picked up again.

  “They’ve seen us,” Steven added grimly. “If we turn back now like something’s wrong, they’ll assume it is. Might cause a panic.”

  Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated playing politics, but Steven was right. If the villagers sensed fear in the knights, it would only feed the unrest already crackling through the air like static.

  “Then we walk through like it’s just another day,” Tristan said, adjusting the fall of his cloak. “Straight backs. Calm voices. We’re peacekeeping, not reacting.”

  Mordred snorted. His tone held mild amusement, “Great. So we’re lying with posture now.”

  Tristan didn’t argue. He simply kept walking. Somewhere in the crowd, a child began to cry. He didn’t blame them.

  They went deeper into the market square, spreading out. Tristan went to the right, following the edge of the market, listening to the crowd. His gaze scanned the crowd as he walked by them. He saw a fruit stand with some of the early season fruits. His lips twitched when he saw a wicker basket full of sun-riped strawberries. His favorite fruit. He wondered if Tina had any favorite fruits as well. Maybe he could ask her the next time he saw her or he could bring her some strawberries.

  A group of men stood next to the stand, talking. One of them spoke, “I can’t believe how much rain we’re getting.”

  Another, older and broader in the shoulders with black hair streaked with gray, snorted into his cup. “Believe it. My field flooded last week. Again. Second time this month.”

  “I heard that flood came straight out of the Dead End Forest,” a third man muttered, his voice low and wary. “Wasn’t natural. Not with the way it moved—like the water had a mind of its own.”

  The others fell silent a beat too long.

  “That was May seventeenth,” said the first man, scratching his brown beard. “Tore through my brother’s lower fields. The whole orchard’s waterlogged now. Said the roots were rot-soft, and the strawberries didn’t survive.”

  “Mine did,” the older man added, nodding toward the fruit cart. “But if the sky keeps weeping like this, I won’t have a harvest come June.”

  The fourth man, standing closest to the cart, glanced toward the castle. “They say no aid can come down until the new ruler’s chosen. No one can open the grain stores, not without royal decree.”

  “Then the Sword better choose quick,” the second man muttered. “Because our kids can’t eat ceremony and thunder. If they don’t act soon, we all will be eating roots by mid-summer.”

  The older man commented, dryly, “We’re losing food and coin by the day. Winter won’t be an easy thing to survive this year if this keep up.”

  As Tristan stopped at the stand, one of them tipped his head respectfully, adding under his breath, “Sir Knight… hope someone up there’s listening.”

  The fruit cart beside the men was modest for an early season crop, its baskets of red berries neatly arranged beside smaller bowls of gooseberries and rhubarb stalks tied with twine. He stepped closer, resting one hand casually on his belt as he scanned the goods.

  “Afternoon, Sir,” the vendor greeted him, a man with a thick neck and dirt-stained hands. “Fresh-picked this morning. Storm didn’t touch these ones.”

  “Lucky patch,” Tristan said, eying the strawberries. They looked decent—smaller than the imported ones nobles favored, but firm and fragrant.

  “How much for a bundle?” he asked, pointing at the strawberries.

  The vendor glanced at his companions, then back at Tristan. “For a knight? Take the first one as thanks. Maybe the Court will send us some seed before the rains drown us all.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow but offered a nod of gratitude. “You’re generous. But I pay for what I take. Keep the change.” He reached into his belt pouch and passed over a gold coin, taking the bundle of berries with a quiet “Thank you.”

  As he tucked the paper-wrapped fruit into his cloak, one of the other farmers muttered, not unkindly, “Suppose it’s good to see a knight down here buying fruit and not waving a sword.”

  Another added, “Maybe if the Sword up there took its cues from the ones down here, we’d have a ruler by now.”

  Tristan offered a dry smile, but said nothing. He stepped away from the cart, catching snippets of continued conversation behind him.

  “Storms one day, floods the next… I’m telling you, something’s coming.”

  “Aye—and it ain’t just the rain.”

  “The Misses will be happy. I got a gold coin.”

  Tristan walked on, the berries tucked under his arm, the weight of both the sword on his hip and their words heavier than he liked to admit. He wished there was more he could do to help the people, but anything more then what he already did had to come from the Throne. He forgot which King decree any help from the Crown had to be done with a decree. He knew there was a reason behind it.

  A par of blond haired women - sisters from the look of them - stood next to another stall. The stall housed wool, yarn, and other needle crafts in various shades of hue. One of the women spoke to her sister, “I never seen lightening crawl across the clouds like that.”

  “I know,” the sister said, “I sent my youngest inside, but a storm like that? It’s an omen.” She paused. “I wonder what Father Andrew will say tomorrow night at church.”

  “It may not be good,” the first woman said, “He is always going on how Christ is supposed to be return soon, but I haven’t seen any of the signs. There is no mark of the Beast.”

  “Maybe with the next King, we will see a Mark of Beast,” the Sister argued, “And Christ will return then.”

  Tristan witnessed the first woman rolling her eyes before she went on, “Rumor has it that a storm mage did it. Considering who is all up in the Castle right now, it had to be a noble.”

  “A storm mage?! Hopefully, the Church will see to their death,” the sister said, “I can’t believe magi are still allowed to exists. Magic has been known to make people go crazy and invites the devil in.” She crossed herself as a way to protect against evil.

  Tristan moved on. He could have stopped and purchase some colorful yarn for a Lady, but he didn’t know if the lady he had in mind would have consider doing needlecraft. He turned his gaze onto the inner part of the market.

  A large pool of water remained after this morning’s rain shower and a dozen children played around it. Some of them jumped into it, causing the nearby kids to squeal as the water splashed at them. Near the children, an old man sat upon a bench, holding a piece of wood watched the children with a fond smile. Next to him, a young man barely out of his teens years sat, craving into a piece of wood he was holding.

  Tristan walked close enough to them where he overheard a part of their conversation. The old man’s voice was gravely as he spoke, “Apple blossoms came early. Bees don’t know what to do. There has been too much rain this early in the season. Some of the crop will drown before they even sprout.”

  “Do you think the Court will help,” The apprentice asked, pausing in his work and giving the older man his full attention.

  The old wood craver snorted, “Not ‘til the Sword moves. They’re locked behind rituals and bloodlines while we suffer.”

  Tristan frowned. The villagers were getting restless and worried about the whole situation involving the Choosing Ceremony. He would have to speak with Merlin about their options while they wait for a new Ruler. He started to understand why the Choosing Ceremony was usually held privately within the Court. He pitied the New Ruler already. If the New Ruler managed to survive the Court, they would be eaten alive by the public and their requests for help.

  He walked close to a wheel repair station where a blacksmith stepped out of his shop, followed by a young man, and old weathered man. Their voices drifted over to Tristan as they stopped by a wheel on a barrel. The Blacksmith’s voice was deep and loud as he spoke, “I was out back reinforcing the iron gate when I saw ‘em—four twisters, big ones, churning like angry gods. North, south, east, and west.”

  “I saw them, too,” the teenager spoke. His voice hitched slightly. “They weren’t just flailing wild either like you normally see. I swear, they were becoming larger as they moved. All four—straight for the castle. Like something was calling them.”

  “The villagers on the outskirts were hit hard,” The cart driver grumbled, “I was there, picking up an order. I had to cut the horses loose before I sought shelter. One of the twisters passed so close to the edge of town it snapped the weather-vane clean off the chapel roof and uprooted a few trees.”

  The Blacksmith looked at the young man with a curious look, “You think someone summoned them?”

  The Cart driver said, “If they did, it weren’t just for show. Storm like that doesn’t just happen. That was magic. Big, ugly, old magic.”

  The young man shifted uneasily before he said something too low for Tristan to hear, but it caused both the Blacksmith and the cart driver to look at him in alarm and nodded in agreement.

  Tristan walked on, moving through the market square at an easy pace. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, scanning rooftops, alleys, and the edges of merchant carts. No threats—just unease.

  He joined Mordred on the far side of the square, where the knight leaned against a support post beside a stall that hadn’t opened yet, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

  “Quiet,” Tristan muttered under his breath.

  “Too quiet,” Mordred replied. He gestured with a slight nod toward the far end of the square where a cluster of older men sat hunched over their lunch. “You hear what they were saying?”

  Tristan nodded. “Flash floods from the Dead End Forest. One of them said the water moved like it had a will of its own.”

  Mordred scoffed. “Sounds like tavern talk.”

  “Maybe. But it lines up with the terrain damage reports. One of the side roads east of the forest was completely washed out. And that wasn’t even two weeks ago.”

  Mordred shifted his weight. “Aye. Then came the twisters a few days later, and now this morning’s storm. One more weather ‘coincidence’ and I’ll start praying to whichever god handles crop seasons.”

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  Tristan glanced down at the bundle of strawberries tucked under his arm. “One of the vendors said their orchard survived the floods. The rest weren’t so lucky.”

  Mordred grunted. “No ruler, no emergency grain stores, no coin for the farmers. All because the damn Sword won’t move.”

  Tristan looked toward the castle, his voice quiet. “They don’t care why there’s no King. Just that no one's helping them.”

  Mordred gave a short, humorless laugh. “And you still want to wear a crown one day?”

  Tristan didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed at a passing shadow near the alley to their left.

  “Depends,” he murmured, tone unreadable. “On whether the Sword wants a man… or a storm.”

  Tristan didn’t have to turn to know Steven was approaching. The man's footsteps were always deliberate—solid, steady, and just a little too loud for someone trying to blend into a tense crowd.

  Steven stopped beside them, brushing raindrops off his cloak as he glanced between the two. “Well,” he said, tone dry, “the good news is no one’s trying to riot yet.”

  “That’s a low bar,” Mordred muttered.

  Steven huffed a faint laugh, then lowered his voice. “I passed by the fountain near the old cobbler’s shop. Bunch of women were talking—said the rain’s killing the root vegetables. Potatoes turning white, onions soft before they’re ripe. And get this—someone swears their well water’s started tasting bitter.”

  Tristan frowned. “Contaminated?”

  “Maybe. Or it’s superstition. But people are scared.” Steven’s expression turned grim. “One of them said they saw something ‘wrong’ with the lightning. Like it forked toward the same point in the sky—three times. Not random. Intentional.”

  Mordred let out a slow breath. “And still the nobles sit around arguing over bloodlines while the fields rot and the walls crack.”

  Steven glanced at Tristan. “You think this is weather? Or magic?”

  Tristan was quiet for a moment. He adjusted the fall of his cloak over the strawberry bundle. “Both. But the people won’t care about the difference. They just want someone to fix it.”

  A pause settled between the three knights—filled with rustling carts, distant hammering, and the soft murmurs of a market pretending not to tremble. Then Steven nodded toward the main road.

  “We’ve got movement,” he said. “Group coming in—fast, quiet, masked. Doesn’t look like traders.”

  Tristan straightened immediately. “Positions. Now.”

  A dozen figures were emerging from the narrow northern road—silent, masked, and utterly still in their movement. Their armor was a subtle patchwork of pale grays and icy blues, meant to blend into snowfall—not sunlit stone. White fabric marked with a faint, jagged snowflake crest wrapped around their heads, leaving their faces bare. Their sharp blue eyes didn’t miss a single movement.

  At the center of their formation, riding on the back of large white war stallion, was a young woman with bright red hair, similar to the White Hall’s proponent hair color. She wore a silver silk layered over glacier blue gown, tailor to the Camelot Nobility. Behind her, a large banner with the crest of White Hall flapped in the wind.

  “What the hell,” Mordred muttered. “Who are they?”

  “They are the Frost Ninja from the Hidden Frost Ninja Village,” Tristan started, “Within the Yuki Kingdom. I ran into them before. Nasty pieces of work if you ask me.”

  “Hmm, today just got a lot more interesting,” Steven murmured.

  “No kidding,” Mordred agreed.

  The villagers, already anxious from the storm, stopped what they were doing. Merchants froze behind their carts. Mothers gripped their children’s shoulders. Even the birds quieted.

  One of the Frost Ninja stepped forward—taller than the others, older then the rest, with a deeper-blue sash tied around his waist that marked him as the team captain. He raised one gloved hand in a sign of diplomatic intent.

  “We come under treaty,” he announced clearly. “This is Lady Valentina Lynn White Hall of the Yuki Kingdom, blood of House White Hall. She has come to claim her right to be judged by the Holy Sword.”

  A heavy silence fell.

  Steven leaned close. “They invoked diplomatic immunity. That’ll keep the peace.”

  “For now,” Mordred added.

  Tristan’s gaze stayed on the woman.

  She didn’t seem nervous. In fact, she barely glanced at the villagers. Her gleaming crystal blue eyes swept the square once, then flicked up toward the castle with a faint smile curling her lips.

  “She’s not just here for the ceremony,” Tristan said quietly. “She’s here to become the Chosen Ruler.”

  “Want me to announce them?” Mordred asked, still watching the villagers stir uneasily at the sudden foreign presence.

  Tristan nodded, not breaking his stare. “Yes. Do it carefully. The last thing we need is a mob.”

  Mordred adjusted his cloak and stepped forward, raising his voice. “By order of the Knights of Camelot,” he declared formally, “these travelers are granted escort to the castle. Lady Valentina comes under treaty protection and will be received by the Court.” The villagers parted like tidewater. “I am Sir Mordred, a Knight of Camelot and the Round Table, Of House Wintemere. These two are -“ He extended his arm toward Tristan and Steven, “The Brown hair gentleman is Sir Tristan, a Knight of Camelot and the Round Table, of House Fletcher, and the Black Hair gentleman is Sir Steven, a Knight of Camelot and the Round Table, of House Corbin. We will be your escort to the Castle, gentlemen and lady.”

  Tristan, Mordred, and Steven took their places at the front of the escort. The Frost Ninja didn’t speak again. They moved as one—silent and watchful, shadows trailing snow.

  Tina sighed as she waited for someone - anyone - to step up to be judged by the Holy Sword. The rest of the morning was boring. No one else seemed to be brave enough to approach the Sword after what happened to Lord Salazar. Even the guards had relaxed, their postures loosening under the weight of the lull. She spotted a few of them cluster together, talking as they kept watch over the courtyard. The Paladin Guards stood on the wall, looking over the courtyard. They had been moved into position sometime after Lord Salazar’s attempt. Tina could have sworn she had seen Genesis peeking over the edge of the wall with Reno at his side. They didn’t stay long before they moved on.

  Eventually, the servants brought around snacks. A small tray of fruit slices, honeyed bread, and soft cheese passed her way. Tina took a strawberry without much thought, chewing absently as her gaze drifted across the courtyard.

  The sun broke through the thinning clouds, warming the courtyard stone just enough to lure courtiers into relaxing. The Holy Sword remained untouched, and the longer it sat still, the more conversations resumed—quiet at first, then slowly growing louder, like ripples across a still pond.

  From behind Tina’s left shoulder, a pair of lesser nobles murmured over honeyed nuts and cheese.

  “Did you hear House Grellan’s grain tax request was denied again? The farms are rotting, and still they want tariffs lowered,” one of them grumbled. Tina frowned, glancing up at the Queens. Shouldn’t they be able to do something about that?

  “Pah. No ruler, no coin flow. Until that Sword moves, the vault stays shut,” the other one replied.

  Not far from Tina’s table, she overhead another conversation. She glanced over to see a woman in a black gown with sapphire roses over the bodice fanned herself while whispering behind her hand, “They say the Eastern forest tribes are petitioning for legal recognition—again. Imagine giving rights to shape-shifters. The Church will have a fit.”

  The woman next to her, wearing a black grown with lavender flowers over the bodice and hem replied, “I’m sure High Lord Paladin Peter’s already ordered scouts to the borders. Just in case.”

  Tina glanced at Lancelot. He looked worried and angry at the same time. She reached and cupped his arm that was sitting on the table. His eyes darted to meet hers. She whispered, “Isn’t that overstepping the Church’s authority here in Camelot?”

  “Not if Belladonna has approved it,” Lancelot grumbled.

  “I thought Kalliope was High Queen, not Belladonna,” Tina replied, “Or am I wrong?”

  “You are not wrong, my Clever heart,” he lend forward, “Belladonna has always had a problem about giving up her power. The younger Queens have tried to limit it, but she would find ways around it and use the shadows to manipulate events to her benefit.”

  “And the Kings never did anything to prevent her from doing that?” Tina asked. She glanced up at Belladonna.

  The woman in question had her hair pulled into tight warrior braids—intricate and severe—reminiscent of the Viking shield maidens Tina had studied in her old history books. The style wasn’t just ceremonial—it was a declaration. A warning.

  Her posture was rigid, regal in a way that demanded submission rather than admiration. She stared across the courtyard with an emotionless gaze, sharp and assessing, as if daring someone—anyone—to step out of line so she could make an example of them.

  She wore a gown of deep black, its fabric heavy and smooth, embroidered with threads of dark green that shimmered subtly in the shifting sunlight. The pattern resembled thorns twisting around the hem and sleeves—a quiet message that beauty, in her case, came with blood and consequences.

  Atop her head rested a slender crown of blackened iron, ringed with emeralds so dark they were nearly black. It was not the ornate circlet of a reigning monarch, but rather the sharp, elegant mark of a former High Queen—now an adviser, but no less dangerous for her change in title.

  How could she still hold so much power that the younger Queens were afraid of crossing her, Tina wondered.

  Lancelot followed her gaze to the dais. His jaw tensed ever so slightly. “Some tried,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low so only she could hear. “But Belladonna is... persistent. She served beside weak kings, dying kings, distracted kings. She learned how to rule from the second chair—and sometimes, how to push the first one off the dais.”

  Tina arched an eyebrow. “You make it sound like a game of chairs.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Everything in Camelot is a game of chairs. And Belladonna plays it with blood-stained gloves.”

  She looked at him, eyes sharp. “And you're still loyal to this place?”

  He held her gaze without flinching, “Loyal to Camelot. To the people. Not to the throne, and certainly not to every shadow that lingers behind it.” His fingers brushed lightly against hers where she still cupped his arm—a subtle gesture, easily mistaken for nothing, “But I’d follow you into any storm, my clever heart, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Tina's hand remained on his arm, but her expression shifted—sharper, quieter, more uncertain. Why me?” she asked softly. “You flirt. You smirk. But you’re not stupid, Lancelot. You know what I am. What I’m not.”

  Lancelot didn’t answer right away. His gaze didn’t leave hers. “Because you’re not playing a role,” he said finally. “You’re not pretending to be pure or perfect. You’re just... you. Smart enough to see through court masks, strong enough not to wear one.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowered like a shared secret. “You challenge Belladonna without shouting. You walk into rooms full of enemies and act like they’re old friends. And when the world starts to burn? You look at the fire and ask if it’s worth saving.” Tina looked away, uncomfortable with the weight of the words. But he wasn’t done. “That’s why you. Not because you’re easy to charm—but because I’d be a fool not to try.”

  Tina swallowed against the flutter stirring in her chest and looked away, pretending to adjust the napkin in front of her. She needed to breathe. To think. To anchor herself in safer waters. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup as she asked, keeping her voice light but her meaning sharp, “Is there another like Belladonna in the Court? Someone else I should be watching?”

  Lancelot leaned back slightly, sensing the shift—and respecting it. His smile softened into something more thoughtful. “There are plenty who want to be her,” he said. “Plenty who whisper and scheme. But few with her reach... or her patience.” He tapped a finger lightly on the table, considering. “Lady Morgause of House Dusk is ambitious, but too reckless. Lord Harrick plays politics, but he lacks the loyalty to win real power.” His voice dropped slightly, more serious now. “The one you should keep an eye on... is whoever Belladonna decides to favor next. Because where her shadow falls, the court tends to bend.”

  Tina processed that carefully, her heart slowing back to its usual, measured pace. Politics. Power. That, she understood. And maybe, she thought, that’s why men like Lancelot are more dangerous than they appear. They see the battlefield long before the first sword is drawn. Tina arched a brow, her tone dry but not unkind. “You’ve been part of the Court for a long time to reach that conclusion.”

  Lancelot gave her a sidelong smile, the kind that said he’d heard the bait in her words but wasn’t biting—yet. “Long enough to know that power moves slower than gossip and leaves a colder trail.” He tilted his head toward the crowd. “You learn more from watching who flinches than who speaks.”

  Tina smirked faintly. “And here I thought you spent your years here collecting lovers and polishing your sword.”

  “That too,” he said smoothly, without shame. “But one doesn’t survive Camelot by charm alone.” He leaned just a little closer again, voice dipping low. “You’re starting to sound like a Court player yourself, Lady Armstrong.”

  Tina snorted softly, shaking her head. “I’m not a court player,” she said, leaning back in her chair, her voice low and certain. “I’m still planning to leave once the new ruler is chosen.” She glanced across the courtyard toward the Holy Sword, then back to her plate, idly shifting a slice of pear with her fork. “I want to explore Avalon,” Tina’s voice held a longing tone, “I want to see the coastline, the small farming villages, the other Kingdoms and their cultures.” She sighed. A small smile pulled at her lips. “Maybe I could get lucky enough to see these mysterious creatures that spit fireballs, Lord Godric was talking about.”

  Lancelot chuckled. Rosemary shook her head, asking, “Why do you want to do that?”

  “To experience the world a little bit before I settle down and get married,” Tina shrugged, “The men do it. Plus, it will be a healing time for me.”

  “The men do it to gain honor and respect, dear cousin,” Rosemary argued. “They want to increase their chances of finding a good, respectful wife to raise their heirs and take care of the estate while they are protecting the realm.”

  “Rose, I’m not knocking that,” Tina said. “I just think women should be able to do that too if they wish and protect their homes and children as the last line of defense.”

  “As a last line of defense?” Rose repeated, “Are you saying men like Sir Lancelot can be easily defeated?”

  “No, I’m not saying that per say,” Tina said, “They can be overpowered and injured where they die.” She glanced at the Holy Sword. “I held a teammate as he bled out.” She licked her lips and turned her eyes to her arms. “I tried to heal him, but it didn’t work. We both were too weak. I couldn’t heal fast enough and he wasn’t strong enough to defend both of us.” Tina directed her gaze to Rose. "If I had been strong enough, he would still be alive.”

  Rose kept silent, looking a bit ashamed. Lancelot cleared his throat, “So, when the dust of adventure settles, what are you planning to do then?”

  Tina turned to him, with a raised eyebrow, “I’d prob visit Camelot, again, to make sure you all are still doing alright under the next King then I will make my way to the family estate to see why they will try to marry me off to,” she paused. “I refuse to be a pawn after what I went through. I worked for a -“ she paused, thinking. She didn’t know if Lancelot and Rose would understand the term boss or manager like she did. She chose the next best thing, “A master who treated my team and I as pawns. We didn’t like it, but dealt with it because it was better then the consequence.” She looked wistful at the sky. I want to live a little before someone decides I’m worth more under their watch than free."

  Lancelot nodded, slowly, his voice was quiet when he finally spoke, “You may not be an active court player, but you’ve already changed the board.” Tina frowned, almost in protest, but he continued. “I’ve served under kings who wanted glory, and queens who wanted control. But Camelot wasn’t built by rulers like that. It was built by those who stood up before they were asked to. Those who protected people, not crowns.” He glanced at her then—not with his usual smirk or half-flirtation, but something steadier.

  “You fight for what matters. Even when it hurts. Even when it costs you. That’s the kind of person I’d rather follow than the ones sitting on thrones deciding what loyalty means.” He leaned back just slightly, as if to soften the weight of his words. “So if you ever decide to walk away from all this—know that I’m not bound to the throne, Tina. I’m bound to the reason Camelot deserves saving.”

  “Lord Merlin! Lady Morgana! Your lovely majesties! Lords and Ladies of the Court,” a man with black hair called as he strolled into the courtyard. His voice carried across the tables, past murmurs and the rustle of silks. The Courtyard fell silent. “Lady Valentina Lynn White Hall of the Yuki Kingdom wishes to be judged by the Holy Sword.”

  A hush fell over the courtyard like a dropped veil. Tina’s spine straightened as she turned her head to look toward the Courtyard archway. Lancelot tensed beside her. She turned back to him and lend in, “Who was that, announcing this White Hall?”

  “She’s what?” someone whispered from two tables down.

  “Sir Mordred of the House Wintermere,” Lancelot replied.

  “Another White Hall? How many of them are there?” murmured another.

  Tina’s gaze darted back toward the courtyard’s entrance just as Valentina Lynn White Hall stepped into the courtyard. She was flanked by silent guard dressed as ninja. Tina ran her eyes over their outfits. They wore shades of white, and each headband bore the image of a snowflake. She didn’t recognize the symbol—but it told her enough: there were other ninja villages within Avalon.

  Lancelot leaned in slightly and murmured, only for Tina, “Well. The storm has a name now.”

  Tina didn’t take her eyes off the approaching figure as she replied quietly, “And what storm is that?”

  Lancelot exhaled through his nose, just short of a sigh, “The kind that doesn’t come from the sky.” He straightened in his seat, his tone losing its softness. “She walks like someone who’s already been told she’ll win. That’s either dangerous confidence… or something far worse.”

  Tina's brow furrowed. The snowflake Ninja surrounding Valentina moved like shadows—too silent, too disciplined.

  Something’s not right, she thought, her fingers unconsciously brushing the table's edge.

  From across the courtyard, murmurs picked up again—quickened, uneasy, edged with superstition and skepticism. Ignoring the chatter, Valentina Lynn White Hall walked toward the Holy Sword. Merlin stood, waiting.

  Tina’s eyes narrowed as the snowflake Ninja fanned out around the Sword, silent as ghosts. At her side, Rose leaned in slightly, voice hushed beneath the rising tension.

  “You know,” Rose murmured, “I think she might actually be related.”

  Tina turned to her, startled. “What?”

  Rose kept her gaze forward, expression unreadable. “Father once mentioned an uncle—White Hall by blood—who left Avalon for the Yuki Kingdom. That was… forty-five years ago, maybe more.” She paused, then added quietly, “If that’s true, this Valentina could be our second cousin. It wouldn’t be surprising. The White Hall Family Tree has been blessed with twins and triplets. Many of them don’t get the privilege of becoming Lord White Hall of Camelot. They sometimes leave the Kingdom and settle in different parts of the land or across the seas.”

  Tina’s stomach twisted. “Do you believe that?”

  Rose’s mouth tightened into a polite court smile. “I believe that someone wants us to.”

  Tina turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why do you say that?”

  Rose didn’t answer right away. Her fingers adjusted the edge of her wide-brimmed hat, shielding her eyes from the midday sun as she studied the woman nearing the Holy Sword. “Because she looks like us,” Rose finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just the coloring or the cheekbones—there’s something… familiar. In the way she holds her head. The way she walks like the world owes her a throne.”

  Tina followed her cousin’s gaze, frowning. Now that Rose had said it, there was something vaguely familiar about Valentina Lynn’s features—something Tina couldn’t quite place, but couldn’t ignore either.

  “Or,” Rose added, “someone wants us to think she looks like us. Which, frankly, worries me more.”

  “Either way,” Lancelot commented, “Things just got a lot more interesting around here.”

  Pausing in a conversation with Reno, Genesis heard Mordred’s voice ring out, “Lord Merlin! Lady Morgana! Your lovely majesties! Lords and Ladies of the Court. Lady Valentina Lynn White Hall of the Yuki Kingdom wishes to be judged by the Holy Sword.”

  “What?!” Genesis blinked and stepped out of the guard tower, his boots scraping against the stone. He leaned over the edge of the wall, scanning the courtyard below.

  There — he spotted them first. His cousin and sister. It was different to know his younger sister was here in Camelot and sat below, with their cousin, acting like she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Rose. Tina. They sat with Lancelot, beneath his vantage point, near the edge of the gathering. It was a good place for a quick escape. He wondered if Lancelot had chosen that spot or not.

  His gaze shifted to the archway where a red haired woman in a gown of silver and glacier blue, flanked by guards. One of them carried the White Hall banner, a white lion with a red crown stitched boldly at its heart.

  Genesis stiffened, his eyes widening. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  He knew there were cousins scattered across other kingdoms—old bloodlines split by pride and disputes. But even distant branches knew better than to bring armed warriors into a friendly territory without permission from the current Lord of the House. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the banner, fighting back the rage he felt, boiling in his gut.

  Only the direct descendants of King Godric's direct line were permitted to bear the crowned lion.

  The red crown wasn’t ornamental—it had been added after Godric White Hall had claimed Camelot’s throne centuries ago. Genesis’ jaw tightened as the red-haired woman strolled across the courtyard, approaching the Sword. He sensed Reno stop at his elbow. Reno murmured, “What the - That’s a crowned banner. How the hell did she get that?”

  Genesis didn’t take his eyes off the courtyard, “I don’t know—and right now, I don’t care. Something’s wrong .”

  Reno shifted slightly, hand brushing the hilt of his sword out of habit, “You want me to send a runner?”

  Genesis’ eyes narrowed as Valentina Lynn stopped in front of the Holy Sword and Merlin. “No,” he said, voice like iron. “Not yet.”

  Tina’s fingers tightened on her skirt. She didn’t know why she was on edge. The scrape of chairs against the stone floor sent a shiver up her spine. The courtyard buzzed as Merlin and Valentina exchanged words.

  “Another White Hall,” someone muttered close by, “There are times I have forget how large that family is.”

  “She is from the Yuki Kingdom,” a high pitched lady commented, “She’s not one of us.”

  “I can’t believe Merlin is allowing her - a Yukian - try to pull the Holy Sword,” a lord muttered.

  “Let the Holy Sword judge this lady’s worth,” Merlin intoned, “Three attempts, no more, no less.”

  Tina watched as Lady Valentina wrapped her hand around the hilt of the Holy Sword. The world seemed to hold its breath. She glanced around the courtyard. Many of the Court ladies had anxious faces. The Lords looked like they were tolerating this unexpected intruder’s attempt. Lady Valentina’s bodyguard spread out, around Merlin and the Lady, watching. They stood, straight in a military manner.

  Tina couldn’t put her finger on it, but something felt off. Her spiritual senses were going haywire like there was an unseen danger nearby then they quieted. She blinked. She turned her attention to the Holy Sword. It didn’t do anything at first. She frowned as she thought about it. How would one know if they were chosen or not? Would there be some sort of sign like the gem glowing? She turned to ask Lancelot when it happened.

  Lady Valentina lifted her arm. The Holy Sword left the rock. It rose like an ordinary blade pulled free from a sheath. She kept raising her arm and turned the point of the Holy Sword upward. The stainless steel blade reflected the late afternoon sunlight, brightly.

  The courtyard erupted into cheers. Merlin lifted both of his arms, spreading them as if he was welcoming a hug from Lady Valentina and bellowed, “Citizens of Camelot, please welcome your new Chosen Ruler, Queen Valentina of House White Hall! Long Live the Queen!”

  “Long Live the Queen! Long Live the Queen!” Lancelot and Rose chorused with the rest of the Court Members. They stood up. Tina quickly followed their lead. The entire courtyard bowed. Tina kept her eyes on the stone floor, even as cheers thundered around her. Something was wrong. She just didn’t know how — or why

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