The stone of the council chamber felt colder than it had a year ago. Or perhaps it was just Arthur.
For twelve months, the King of Camelot had lived in a silence he hadn’t known was possible. The Citadel was loud with the clatter of armor and the ringing of bells, but the quiet—the hollow space where a constant, clumsy, brilliant presence used to be—was deafening. He had banished Merlin to save him from the pyre, a “mercy” that felt more like a slow execution for them both.
But now, Camelot was screaming.
Every night, the earth groaned. Skeletal remains, animated by a malice Arthur couldn’t cut with steel, clawed their way into the streets. Swords passed through them like mist; shields crumbled under their ancient strength. Arthur’s hands were blistered, his eyes bloodshot from nights without sleep, watching his people dragged into the dark.
“The Druids,” Geoffrey of Monmouth whispered, his voice trembling as he laid an ancient, vellum map on the table. “The texts say they hold the song that returns the restless to the earth. But Sire… after the Great Purge… after your own decrees…”
Arthur didn’t let him finish. He knew. He had sent his knights, but they returned empty-handed, met only by the whistling wind and empty camps. The Druids would not show themselves to the Pendragon crest.
The Silent Woods
Arthur rode alone. He had stripped off his heavy plate, wearing only his chainmail and a simple cloak. He didn’t want to look like a conqueror; he felt like a beggar.
The woods of Gedref were thick with mist. Arthur dismounted, his boots crunching on fallen leaves. “I am Arthur Pendragon!” he shouted, his voice cracking with a fatigue that went bone-deep. “I have not come to hunt! I have not come for blood!”
He walked deeper, his horse trailing behind him. “Please!” he cried out, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “My people are dying. Innocents who have done nothing to you. If you must take a life, take mine, but help them!”
He collapsed against a Rowan tree, his forehead resting against the bark. He stayed there for hours, praying to a gods he wasn’t sure he believed in, until a soft rustle made him spin around.
A young man, barely twenty, stood there in a gray tunic. His eyes were ancient. “You seek the High Lord,” the boy said softly.
“I seek help,” Arthur corrected, his voice a rasp.
“They are one and the same. If Lord Emrys grants you his grace, the dead shall sleep. If he turns away, Camelot falls.”
Arthur swallowed hard. Emrys. The name sounded like thunder in the Druid legends. He nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement. “Lead the way.”
The Clearing of Reckoning
They walked in a silence so heavy Arthur could hear the frantic drumming of his own heart. Finally, they reached a clearing bathed in the silver light of a dying afternoon.
In the center stood a figure. Back turned, dressed in robes of deep indigo—fine fabric, yet devoid of any sigil. He looked slight, almost fragile against the towering oaks, yet the air around him hummed with a terrifying, static pressure.
The guide bowed low, forehead almost touching the moss, and vanished back into the trees.
Arthur stood frozen. He looked at the Lord of the Druids, the man who held the life of every child in Camelot in his hands. Arthur took a step forward, then another. His pride, his crown, his father’s legacy—it all felt like lead.
Slowly, the King of Camelot sank to his knees.
“Lord Emrys,” Arthur began, his voice trembling. He didn’t look up. He looked at the hem of the indigo robe. “I know what I have done. I know the blood on my hands. I know we are enemies by my own making.”
He took a jagged breath, a sob threatening to break through. “But the people… the bakers, the children, the mothers… they didn’t sign the decrees. They didn’t swing the sword. Please. I am begging you. Save them.”
Arthur bowed his head, baring his neck—a silent offer. “I know I won’t leave this forest alive. I accept that. Take my life. Execute the King. Just save my city.”