The End of Camelot
The gates of Camelot did not burst open; they simply ceased to be. With a wave of a hand, the reinforced oak turned into a flurry of white flower petals, leaving the entrance wide open to the storm.
Through the rain walked a figure that looked less like a man and more like a manifestation of the earth’s fury. Emrys, the High Lord of the Druids, wore robes of deepest obsidian, and his eyes were not blue, but a burning, pitiless gold. Behind him, the air hummed with the power of the Old Religion, a pressure so great it made the knights’ horses scream and bolt.
Arthur stood at the head of his knights in the courtyard, his sword, Excalibur, drawn. But for the first time, the legendary blade felt like a mere toy.
“Stay back, Sorcerer!” Sir Leon shouted, his voice cracking. “You enter a city where magic is a capital crime. By the laws of Camelot, you are under arrest!”
Emrys didn’t stop. He didn’t even look at Leon. As he stepped onto the cobblestones, the very stones turned to moss and grass beneath his feet.
“Your laws,” Emrys spoke, and his voice wasn’t a whisper—it was the roar of the wind and the crack of the mountain. “Your laws have filled the soil of this land with the blood of my kin. You have hunted the innocent, burned the healers, and silenced the song of the earth. I am not here to negotiate with a city of executioners.”
Arthur stepped forward, his cape snapping in the magical gale. “I am the King of this land, Emrys! I will not have my people threatened by a tyrant from the woods!”
Emrys halted. He looked at Arthur, and for a moment, the golden fire in his eyes flared so bright it blinded the sun.
“Tyrant?” Emrys laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “I am the balance, Arthur Pendragon. I am the High Lord of the Disir, the Triple Goddess, and every spirit that haunts these woods. I have watched you build a throne on the bones of my people. Today, that throne crumbles.”
With a sharp gesture, Emrys slammed his staff into the ground. A shockwave rippled through the courtyard. Every knight was instantly disarmed; their swords flew from their hands as if repelled by a magnetic force, clattering uselessly across the stones.
“You think your steel protects you?” Emrys asked, walking directly up to Arthur until he was inches from the King’s chest. He didn’t fear the King; he looked down on him as a god looks at an ant. “Your kingdom exists because I permitted it. But the time of permission is over. Camelot has been found wanting.”
Arthur stared into the golden eyes of the man who held the life of his city in his palm. He saw no mercy there, only the cold, hard justice of a nature that had been pushed too far.
“What do you want?” Arthur hissed through gritted teeth.
“Submission,” Emrys replied. “You will repeal your laws. You will open your gates to the magic you feared. Or I will let the forest reclaim these walls, and Camelot will be nothing more than a ghost story told to children.”
The knights watched in stunned, terrified silence. They realized then that they weren’t facing a rebel or a criminal. They were facing an equal to their King—a sovereign of a hidden world who had finally decided that the age of men was over, and the age of magic had returned.
The High Lord’s Judgment
The air thrummed with the raw power of Emrys, the High Lord. His voice, like the cracking of glacial ice, had stripped Camelot of its illusions of control. Arthur, however, was not a man to bow, even to a god.
“You call this justice?” Arthur snarled, his eyes burning with defiance even as his hands twitched for the sword Emrys had so effortlessly disarmed. “You threaten my people, invade my home, and speak of crushing my kingdom, and you dare call yourself righteous? We will not submit to a barbarian warlord!”
“Barbarian?” Emrys laughed, a chilling sound devoid of mirth. “I am older than your stone walls, Pendragon. I saw the first trees rise. I watched your ancestors crawl from the mud. You are but a fleeting spark in the shadow of true power.”
Arthur ignored the insult. “Knights of Camelot!” he roared, turning to his men. “Even without our swords, we are warriors! Drive this sorcerer from our gates! For the King!”
The knights, fueled by fierce loyalty and ingrained prejudice, surged forward. Sir Leon, his face a mask of furious determination, lunged with a bare fist. Sir Percival, relying on sheer brute strength, charged like a bull. They were brave, but they were blind.
Emrys didn’t move. He simply raised his hand.
A silent, invisible force slammed into the charging knights. It wasn’t a push; it was an absolute cessation of motion. Leon froze mid-punch, his fist inches from Emrys’s face, a snarl fixed on his lips. Percival’s heavy boot hung in the air, suspended. Every knight was caught, mid-stride, mid-breath, mid-shout. Their eyes, wide with aggression, were now locked in a tableau of impotent rage.
Emrys walked slowly through the frozen tableau of defiant warriors. He reached out and gently tapped Sir Leon’s armored chest. The knight didn’t move, but a fine crack appeared on his breastplate, spreading like a spiderweb. Emrys merely observed it, then continued to Arthur.
“You speak of driving me out?” Emrys’s voice was a low growl, a predator circling its prey. “You speak of war with magic you cannot comprehend? You cling to the pathetic notion of your own strength, even as it crumbles to dust before me.”
He stood directly before Arthur. His golden eyes, filled with centuries of suppressed rage and the agony of his persecuted kin, burned into the King’s.
“You sit on your father’s throne,” Emrys continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “a throne built on my blood. You inherited his arrogance, his cruelty, his utter blindness to the true heart of this land. You are no different than he was. You learned nothing.”
With a flick of his wrist, Emrys’s staff appeared in his hand, its ancient wood resonating with power. He pressed the tip of the staff against Arthur’s chest, just above his heart.
Arthur stiffened, refusing to flinch, but the staff was not for striking. It was for control.
Emrys applied a gentle, steady pressure. Arthur felt an invisible weight descend upon him, forcing his legs to buckle. He fought it, muscles straining, jaw clenched, but it was like trying to hold back a mountain. Slowly, agonizingly, Arthur Pendragon, the proud King of Camelot, was forced to his knees.
His crown, heavy with jewels, tilted precariously. His golden cloak pooled around him on the rain-slicked stones. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, but could not resist the overwhelming force. His face, usually a mask of kingly authority, was now contorted in a humiliating struggle against an invisible power. He stared up at Emrys, not with anger, but with a raw, desperate fury born of his complete helplessness.
Emrys merely looked down at the kneeling king. No pity softened his features. Only a cold, ancient triumph.
“You will learn your place, King of Men,” Emrys said, his voice resonating with absolute power. “You will learn the true meaning of humility. And you will learn that the balance of Albion does not bend to your will. It bends to mine.”
The rain intensified, washing over the frozen knights, over the kneeling king, and over the High Lord who stood unyielding, the embodiment of a reckoning long overdue.
The Desolation of the Golden King
The rain had turned the courtyard into a swamp of gray silt. Arthur struggled to rise, his breath coming in jagged, defiant snarls. Even with the invisible weight of Emrys’s power pressing on his lungs, Arthur’s eyes remained fixed on the High Lord with a murderous, unyielding fire.
“You can kill me, sorcerer,” Arthur spat, a mixture of blood and rain dripping from his chin. “But you will never make me crawl. You are just another monster proving why my father was right to hunt you.”
Emrys didn’t strike him. He didn’t even look angry. He looked profoundly, terrifyingly disappointed.
“You still think this is about you, Arthur,” Emrys said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to come from the stones themselves. “You think your ‘noble’ defiance is a shield. Let me show you what your pride actually costs.”
Emrys gestured toward the frozen line of knights. His golden eyes locked onto Sir Leon, Arthur’s oldest friend.
“Leon!” Arthur screamed, but he could only watch as Emrys began to close his fist.
Leon’s armor began to shriek. The heavy steel of his breastplate started to cave inward, not from a blow, but as if the air itself was crushing him. Leon’s eyes bulged, his face turning a deep, sickly purple as his own armor began to collapse his ribcage. He couldn’t scream—he was still frozen—but the sound of his bones beginning to crack echoed through the silent courtyard like dry kindling snapping.
The courtyard was a nightmare of sound and silence. The screeching of Sir Leon’s armor—the sound of steel being crushed by an invisible hand—filled the air. Leon’s eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of purple agony as his lungs were slowly squeezed flat.
“Stop it! Stop!” Arthur screamed, throwing himself against the invisible barrier that separated him from his friend. He clawed at the air, his fingernails bleeding as they scraped against the magical force. “Emrys! Look at me! Leave him! It’s me you hate! It’s my bloodline that did this!”
Emrys turned his golden gaze toward the lower town. With a flick of his wrist, the bells of the cathedral began to toll a dissonant, terrifying alarm—not by human hands, but by magic. “I can feel every heart in this city, Arthur,” Emrys said, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm. “I can reach into their chests and stop them all. A thousand lives for every year my people were hunted. Shall we start with the children in the square?”
Arthur’s face went deathly pale. The defiance, the kingly pride, the warrior’s resolve—it all vanished in an instant, replaced by a frantic, raw terror. He realized he wasn’t dealing with a man he could negotiate with; he was dealing with an avatar of vengeance.
“No! Please, I’m begging you!” Arthur’s voice broke into a jagged sob. He fell to his knees, his hands outstretched in a gesture of absolute supplication. “Kill me! Torture me! Take my soul, burn me at the stake—do whatever you want to me, but please, don’t hurt them! They are innocent! They only followed my father’s orders because they were afraid!”
Arthur was frantic now, his eyes wild with grief. He scrambled toward Emrys on his knees, ignoring the mud and the jagged stones. “I’ll do anything! I’ll burn the laws myself! I’ll abdicate! I’ll be your slave, your footstool—anything! Just let Leon breathe! Just let my people live!”
Emrys looked down at the King. The sight of the most powerful man in Albion reduced to a frantic, sobbing mess was jarring. The silence in the courtyard was absolute, save for Arthur’s desperate pleas.
“You would trade your crown, your honor, and your very life for the lives of these… peasants?” Emrys asked, his voice echoing with a flicker of curiosity.
“Yes! Everything! It’s all yours!” Arthur cried, his forehead almost touching the ground. “Just take it and leave them alone! Please, Emrys… have mercy on them, not on me!”
Emrys narrowed his eyes. “Prove it,” he commanded.
Suddenly, the crushing weight that had been pinning Arthur to the earth vanished.
Arthur didn’t try to stand. He didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, he threw himself forward into the muck, sliding through the filth until he reached Emrys’s boots. He pressed his face directly into the wet, cold mud, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.
“I am nothing,” Arthur choked out, his voice muffled by the earth. “I am your subject. My life is yours to end or to use. Only spare them. Please, Great Lord… spare them.”
Leon’s armor suddenly expanded with a loud clack of metal, and the knight slumped forward, gasping for air, the pressure finally gone.
Emrys stood perfectly still. He looked down at the King of Camelot—the man he had expected to be a carbon copy of the tyrant Uther. He had expected a man who would fight to the death for his own pride. He had not expected a man who would throw his soul into the dirt to save a single knight and a city of strangers.
The golden fire in Emrys’s eyes flickered, dimming slightly. He watched Arthur’s trembling shoulders, the way the King stayed face-down in the mud, waiting for his execution or his master’s word.
For the first time since he had entered the city, Emrys’s expression shifted. The murderous rage was replaced by a deep, pensive silence. He reached out with his magic, not to crush, but to sense the truth in Arthur’s heart. He found no deception—only a vast, agonizing love for his people.
“You are not your father,” Emrys whispered, more to himself than to the King.
He stayed his hand, his gaze becoming thoughtful. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps this man, who was willing to be utterly humiliated for the sake of mercy, was worth more than the rubble of a destroyed kingdom.
The Sovereign’s Penance
The dungeon air was stagnant and heavy with the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. Arthur paced the length of his cell, his eyes fixed on the slumped form of Sir Leon in the corridor across from him. A shimmering, invisible barrier rippled before Arthur’s bars; no matter how loud he screamed, no sound escaped the confines of his cell. He was a ghost in his own prison.
He watched, paralyzed with horror, as a sorcerer in deep indigo robes—marked with the silver sigil of Highlord Emrys—knelt over the unconscious knight. The man whispered a low incantation, his hands glowing with a soft, eerie light.
“No! Stop! Leave him!” Arthur roared, throwing the full weight of his shoulder against the invisible wall. He hammered his fists until they bled, his silent pleas turning into a frantic, soundless prayer. “Take me! Just leave my men alone!”
The sorcerer ignored him, finishing the spell before standing and vanishing into the shadows of the hallway. Arthur collapsed against the bars, his face pressed to the cold steel, watching Leon’s chest for any sign of life. Hours felt like years. Slowly, he noticed a faint flush of color returning to Leon’s waxen cheeks. The knight breathed, shallow but steady, yet he did not wake. Arthur stayed there, pinned to the bars by dread and desperation, until the morning light filtered through the high, narrow slits in the masonry.
The Great Hall had been transformed. The cold, golden throne of the Pendragons was gone. In its place stood a seat of living wood, its branches still leafed and pulsing with a deep, green vitality, woven together by magic into a throne that looked as if it had grown through the floorboards.
Emrys sat upon it, flanked by mages whose eyes held the cold brilliance of the stars. Guards forced Arthur to his knees before the throne. He did not fight them. His spirit filled with fear for his suffering men and his terrified people. He lowered his head humbly.
“Look at me,” Emrys commanded.
The voice was not the roar of a storm this time, but a calm, terrifying silk. Arthur lifted his head, meeting the High Lord’s gaze.
“I came here to execute a tyrant and raze this city to the ground,” Emrys began, leaning forward. “I intended to let the forest reclaim these stones. But your display last night… your willingness to crawl in the filth for the sake of a single knight and a city of peasants… it stayed my hand.”
Arthur felt a jolt of pure, raw hope. He didn’t speak; he didn’t dare. He simply searched Emrys’s golden eyes for the truth.
“I will not destroy Camelot,” Emrys continued. “And the blood of your people will not be spilled today. Only you shall bear the weight of the penance.”
Arthur slumped forward, a ragged sigh of relief escaping his lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, the gratitude overwhelming. They were safe. His people were safe. He would take any punishment—as long as his people lived.
Emrys watched him, his eyes glittering with a predatory interest. “Do you have nothing to say, Pendragon?”
“Thank you,” Arthur whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for sparing them.” He hesitated, his voice trembling. “And… and my knights? Will they be spared as well?”
Emrys’s lips curled into a cold, sharp smile. “That depends entirely on you, Arthur Pendragon. If you do exactly as I command, if you submit to the path I have laid out for you, no harm shall come to them.”
Arthur nodded instantly. “I will do it. Anything. I swear it.”
Emrys leaned back into the living wood of his throne, his expression unreadable and ancient.
“We shall see,” the High Lord said softly. “What I am about to demand of you is something no King has ever done. I am not going to kill you, Arthur. I am going to make it that easy.”
The following morning felt colder than the last. Arthur had spent the night sleeping fitfully against the damp stones of the dungeon. In the morning, Leon was sitting up, weakly taking water and broth from a wooden bowl. He was alive. That was the only thought that kept the walls from closing in on Arthur.
When the guards came for him, Arthur did not resist. He was led back to the Great Hall, where the air hummed with ancient power.
As he reached the center of the hall, Arthur knelt before the throne of living wood, bowing his head in silent submission.
Emrys did not speak immediately. He stood slowly, his dark robes flowing behind him like a shadow as he descended the stairs. He stopped directly in front of Arthur, looming over the kneeling King. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he placed his palm flat against Arthur’s chest.
Arthur flinched, his eyes snapping shut in terror. He expected a strike, a curse, or the feeling of his heart stopping. Instead, a searing heat bloomed beneath Emrys’s hand. It wasn’t the heat of fire, but of something deeper—a brand being etched into the very core of his being. Arthur let out a choked gasp, his fingers digging into the stone floor as the magic surged through him.
“Open your shirt,” Emrys commanded.
With trembling hands, Arthur fumbled with the laces. He pulled the fabric aside, his breath hitching. Burned into the skin over his heart was the sigil of Emrys—the silver mark of the High Lord, glowing faintly before settling into a dark, permanent brand.
“You belong to me now,” Emrys declared, his voice cold and final. “With this mark, I can control you, punish you, and find you wherever you may hide. Now you are mine.”
Arthur touched the mark with shaking hands. There was no physical pain anymore, but the weight of it was crushing. It was a seal of absolute submission. For a fleeting second, the ghost of his father’s voice screamed in his mind, telling him that death was preferable to this shame. But then he remembered Leon’s face and the silent streets of his city.
He lowered his head until his forehead almost touched the High Lord’s boots. “Yes, Lord Emrys,” he whispered softly
Emrys’s lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile. He returned to his throne and beckoned to a man standing in the shadows—a sorcerer with a stern, scarred face and robes of heavy grey wool.
“Tobias will lead you to your penance,” Emrys said, his eyes glittering. “Remember: if you resist, if you falter, or if you attempt to flee, your knights will pay the price.”
Arthur looked toward Tobias, then back to the High Lord, his heart hammering against the new brand on his chest.
“You are dismissed,” Emrys said, waving a hand as if Arthur were nothing more than a servant being sent to the kitchens.
Arthur stood hesitantly. His legs felt weak, and the silence of the hall felt like a physical weight. He took a deep breath, bowed low to the man who now owned him, and turned to follow Tobias out of the hall.
To Arthur’s profound surprise, they did not head toward the city gates, but to the royal stables. There, two saddled horses were waiting. They were not Arthur’s powerful warhorses, but two ordinary, sturdy beasts meant for common travelers. Tobias mounted without a word and gestured for Arthur to do the same. Arthur obeyed. Then, Tobias led the way out of the citadel.
They rode for hours, leaving the white walls of Camelot far behind. At midday, they stopped for a brief rest. Tobias shared a portion of their travel rations with Arthur—simple bread and dried meat—but the silence remained unbroken. Uncertainty burned in Arthur. Where were they going? What fate awaited him? Arthur was certain Tobias knew the answers, but he did not dare to ask. The brand on his chest felt heavy, a constant reminder of his vow.
They rested for the night under the stars and continued at dawn. By late morning, the forest grew thick and ancient. Tucked away in a small clearing stood a lonely hut. Smoke curled from the chimney, but as they drew closer, Arthur saw how dilapidated the structure was—the thatch was thinning, and the timber looked worn, as if no one had possessed the strength to maintain it.
Tobias dismounted as the door creaked open. A woman stepped out, two small children—perhaps three and five years old—peeking out from behind her skirts. When she saw Tobias, a look of immense relief washed over her face. She smiled warmly and invited them inside.
The interior was humble and cramped, consisting of a single large room. It was spotlessly clean despite the decay. A thin pallet lay in the corner, a small hearth flickered with a modest fire, and a rickety table stood with only two wobbly chairs. The woman, Elara, offered them the seats, but Tobias shook his head.
“I will not be staying,” Tobias said, his voice firm but not unkind. “I have come only to bring Arthur. He is here to serve you.”
Elara gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. She grabbed Tobias’s hand, stammering, “Thank you… oh, thank you.” Then she turned to Arthur and bowed her head, thanking him with a sincerity that made him flinch. Tobias looked Arthur in the eye. “Do whatever she tells you. I will return in two weeks.”
When Tobias departed, he took Arthur’s horse with him. Inside the hut, an awkward silence stretched between Arthur and Elara. Arthur stood in the center of the small room, his tall frame making the hut feel even smaller. Elara turned to the two children who were still huddled against her skirts, watching the stranger with wide, cautious eyes.
“This is my son, Bram,” she said, gently nudging the older boy forward. He was about five, with tangled brown hair and a dirt-smudged face, clutching a small wooden bird as if it were a shield. “And this is little Mera.” The three-year-old girl simply tucked her head further into her mother’s apron, her tiny fingers twisting the fabric. Both children were thin, their clothes patched so many times the original color was a mystery, yet their eyes held a flickering curiosity that pierced through their fear.
“Would you… would you like to rest after your journey?” she asked, her face flushing crimson. “It isn’t much, but you are welcome to it.”
Arthur shook his head quickly. He had a blanket with his supplies, and the thought of taking the only bed from a mother and her children was unthinkable. He went outside to find that Tobias had left him a bedroll and two weeks’ worth of rations. He hesitated to sleep in such close quarters with a stranger, but he realized it was either the floor of the hut or the damp forest floor.
Returning inside, he stood before Elara, remembering his oath to Lord Emrys. “How can I serve you?” he asked quietly.
The following weeks passed in a blur of exhausting labor that pushed Arthur to his physical limits. Elara had survived alone with the children for a long time, and the list of tasks was staggering. Arthur did everything she asked without a word of complaint. He chopped wood until his palms bled, repaired the leaking roof, and reinforced the crumbling walls.
At first, the children, Bram and Mera, watched him from a distance, peering from behind trees as he swung the axe. One afternoon, while Arthur was struggling to fix a broken fence post with blistered hands, little Mera crept closer and offered him a handful of crushed wild strawberries she had found.
“For you,” she whispered. Arthur, stunned by the small gesture, knelt in the dirt so he was at her eye level. He took the berries with his trembling, dirt-stained fingers and smiled—a genuine, soft smile that he hadn’t felt in weeks. “Thank you, Mera,” he replied quietly. Bram too began to follow him, “helping” by handing Arthur stones or sticks, his initial fear replaced by a quiet, wide-eyed hero worship that Arthur found both humbling and heartbreaking.
While Arthur worked on the hut, Elara took the children into the deep woods to forage for berries, nuts, and mushrooms, or tended to her small, struggling garden plot. The food was meager; her forest gatherings were simply not enough to feed four mouths. Arthur quickly realized this and began quietly pushing his own rations toward the center of the table. In return, she shared her freshly cooked stews and foraged greens.
To a man raised on royal banquets, the meals were pitiful, but seeing how hard she worked to find every scrap of food, Arthur ate with a sense of gratitude he had never known in a palace.
One evening, as they sat around the small hearth, Elara pushed a bowl of thin broth toward him. “You work harder than any man I’ve ever known,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his. “Please, take the rest. The children are full.” Arthur knew she was lying—she had barely touched her own portion—but he saw the fierce pride in her eyes. He took the bowl, but only after dividing the last piece of his dried travel meat between Bram and Mera’s plates.
As he reached for the spoon, his hand cramped violently, his fingers locking into a stiff claw from the day’s labor. He hissed through his teeth, trying to mask the pain, but the spoon clattered against the wooden table.
The physical toll was becoming harder and harder. He was a warrior trained for the burst of battle, not the grueling, repetitive toil of a laborer. His muscles throbbed with a constant, dull ache that made every movement a trial, and his hands were covered in raw, stinging blisters that never had time to heal. His repairs were often clumsy—his stone-laying was crooked and his carpentry was rough—driven more by desperate goodwill than actual skill.
Late one night, as he sat by the dying fire trying to wrap his bleeding hands in scraps of cloth, Elara sat beside him. Without a word, she took his hand in hers and began to apply a soothing herbal salve she had rendered from forest plants.
“You don’t have to do this,” Arthur whispered, wincing as the salve stung his raw skin.
“You are saving our home, Arthur,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion. “I am so greatful for you.”
Arthur looked at her, his heart heavy with the weight of his brand. He had little time to think during the day, but every night as he lay on his thin bedroll, he stared at the dark rafters and wondered. He thought of the High Lord sitting on a throne of living wood and wondered what Lord Emrys truly intended for him. When, exactly, would his true punishment finally begin?
The days began to blur into each other. Arthur was splitting logs behind the hut when a familiar hoofbeat made him freeze. He looked up, heart hammering against his ribs, to see Tobias riding into the clearing. A cold jolt of alarm shot through him. Is this it? Is the reprieve over? Am I to face the High Lord’s true judgment now?
But the sorcerer didn’t even dismount for long. He spoke with Elara in hushed tones, his eyes occasionally drifting to the repaired roof and the neatly stacked woodpile. Tobias gave Arthur a short, inscrutable nod, left two heavy sacks of fresh provisions, and rode away without a single word of explanation.
As the weeks stretched into months, the rhythm of the forest began to change Arthur. The agonizing aches in his muscles subsided into a dull, familiar hum of strength. His hands, once soft and royal, became encased in thick, protective callouses.
He grew closer to the small family in ways he never thought possible for a King. He learned that Mera loved the taste of mint leaves and that Bram was terrified of thunderstorms. He watched them grow, saw the color return to their cheeks, and realized that his presence meant they weren’t just surviving—they were safe. Elara told him how her husband had passed eighteen months ago, leaving her to battle the wilderness alone. Arthur found himself listening to her stories of the village, of her childhood, and of the quiet life she had once led. He felt a strange, quiet peace in the small hut, a life stripped of titles and gold, existing entirely outside of time.
Tobias came and went like a ghost, always leaving food, always departing in silence.
Arthur never dared to leave the clearing. He feared that crossing some invisible boundary would bring Emrys’s wrath down upon his knights. He stayed within the shadows of the trees, a guardian in exile.
One clear, crisp evening, after the children had fallen into the deep sleep of the exhausted, Arthur and Elara sat on a fallen log outside the hut. The stars were brilliant, piercing the dark canopy of the forest.
Elara sighed, her head tilted back. “We used to sit like this,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “My husband and I. He used to say the stars were the campfires of the Old Kings. Now the stars are still there, but he’s gone. And the fire feels so cold.”
She began to weep—low, jagged sobs that seemed to come from a well of loneliness she had kept hidden for far too long.
Arthur felt a wave of clumsy compassion. He shifted awkwardly, his large hand hesitating before he tentatively placed it on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “I am so sorry,” he said, his voice rough with genuine sorrow. “I am sorry you lost him. I am sorry you have had to carry this alone.”
Elara let out a choked, bitter laugh through her tears. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her face suddenly hardening with a grief that had turned into something sharper.
“Cursed be Arthur Pendragon,” she sobbed, the words striking Arthur like a physical blow.
Arthur went rigid. His hand dropped from her shoulder as if he had been burned. The brand on his chest seemed to throb in the sudden silence. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling as though it were filled with sand.
“Why?” he managed to press out, his voice barely a whisper. “Why do you say that?”
Elara looked at him, her eyes bright with a terrible, dark fire. “Because Arthur Pendragon murdered him,” she spat.
The woman’s voice was broken, a jagged stream of grief pouring out into the night air. “He was a woodcutter,” she stammered, her hands trembling in her lap. “He worked harder than any man in the valley. But he had a spark. Just a tiny, flickering thing. He wasn’t a sorcerer, Arthur. He couldn’t move mountains or curse kings. He could only make sparks to make the children laugh when the winter was too dark, or start a fire when the wood was too damp to catch.”
She choked on a sob, her eyes unfocused as she relived the nightmare. “One day, he went to the village to trade timber. Arthur Pendragon arrived with his knights. Someone had whispered a lie—that there was a sorcerer hiding among the woodcutters. They accused my Thomas. He denied it, he pleaded, he tried to tell them he was just a father, a provider… but it didn’t matter. They didn’t listen to words from people like us.”
Her voice dropped to a hollow whisper. “They killed him right there, in the dirt of the square. The only mercy I have… the only thing that lets me sleep… is that they used a sword. They killed him fast. They didn’t burn him on a pyre.”
She wept then, a violent, soul-deep sobbing until her strength simply vanished. Exhaustion took her, and she slumped against Arthur’s shoulder, falling into a fitful, tear-stained sleep.
Arthur sat frozen. He kept his arm around her to hold her steady, but his gaze was fixed on the cold, distant stars. His chest burned—not from the brand, but from a sickening, hollow ache. Thomas. He tried to remember the day. He had led so many raids, signed so many warrants. Had he stood over a man whose only crime was making his children smile? Had he looked into the eyes of a “monster” and failed to see a father? The weight of it felt like he was drowning.
When Tobias returned a few days later, Arthur didn’t wait for the provisions to be unpacked. He stepped toward the sorcerer, his face pale and his voice tight. “I need to speak with you,” Arthur said.
Tobias narrowed his eyes, searching Arthur’s face for a moment before giving a sharp nod. He led Arthur away from the hut, deep into the shadows of the ancient oaks where the children couldn’t hear.
“Did she tell the truth?” Arthur asked, his voice trembling. “About her husband? About Thomas? Was he… was he truly an innocent man? Did I really kill him?”
Tobias let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering on stone. “Just her husband?” he asked, his voice rasping with a sudden, sharp edge. “What does it matter now, Pendragon? You killed her Thomas. You killed my brother. You killed so many others I’ve lost count.”
Tobias stepped closer, his face a mask of cold contempt. “But it was ‘just,’ wasn’t it? After all, they had magic. It didn’t matter that they never hurt a soul. It didn’t matter that they had families waiting for them. They were ‘evil’ because of your law.”
Arthur recoiled as if he had been struck, stumbling back against a tree. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis.
Tobias spat in the dirt at Arthur’s feet, his eyes burning with years of suppressed loathing. Without another word, he turned his back and strode away through the brush.
Arthur remained in the forest for a long time, his body shaking with a cold that no fire could warm.
In the days that followed, a heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the small hut. Elara moved like a ghost, her grief freshly reopened, while Arthur felt like a heavy weight was crushing his chest.
One afternoon, while Arthur was sitting on the porch staring blankly at his calloused hands, Bram and Mera approached him. They looked at his somber face with the intuitive fear of children who have already lost too much.
“Are you going away too?” Bram asked, his voice small and trembling. “Are you going to go where Father went?”
The air seemed to vanish from Arthur’s lungs. A sharp, physical pain tightened in his throat, and he found he couldn’t produce a single sound. How could he tell them that he was the reason their father was a memory? How could he look into their innocent eyes?
“No, little ones,” Elara intervened, stepping out from the doorway. Her voice was weary but kind. “Arthur is only with us for a short time. The High Lord sent him to serve us, but soon he must return to Camelot.”
The children immediately burst into tears, their small hands clutching at Arthur’s rough tunic. “No! We don’t want you to go! We want to keep you!” they wailed. Elara knelt to pull them into her arms, whispering words of comfort, but Arthur remained frozen.
In the midst of their crying, the truth finally crystallized in his mind. He had almost forgotten that this was a temporary assignment. He looked at the family he had broken, and for the first time, he understood the true depth of Emrys’s judgment. He didn’t just deserve a punishment; he deserved to feel the weight of every life he had snuffed out.
The following weeks were the hardest of Arthur’s life. He wrestled with the urge to confess, to fall at Elara’s feet and beg for a forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve. But he stayed silent. He realized that telling her the truth wouldn’t help her. It would destroy her world a second time.
Instead, Arthur began to work like a man possessed. He pushed his body until his muscles screamed, driven by a desperate need to leave them with as much as possible. He spent his evenings carving small, intricate wooden toys for the children and weaving sturdy wicker baskets and stools from willow branches—things Elara could take to the village to trade for grain and cloth. He stacked enough firewood to last two winters, his axe ringing through the forest from dawn until dusk. Elara watched him, misinterpreting his frantic energy. She believed he was saddened by their coming separation, and her heart softened toward him even more.
Finally, the day arrived. The sound of a single horse echoed through the clearing. Tobias had returned.
“The High Lord demands your presence,” Tobias said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.
Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. The familiar grip of fear returned, but it was tempered now by a profound sense of shame. He turned to face Elara and the children. Elara’s eyes were shimmering with unshed tears as she stood in the doorway.
When Arthur knelt to say goodbye to the children, they threw their arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. Their small, desperate voices calling his name felt like knives in his chest.
Arthur stood up, his legs feeling like lead. He looked at Tobias, his voice pleading. “Is there anything… anything I can leave for them? To make their lives easier?”
Tobias simply shook his head, a dark, cynical glint in his eyes. “You have nothing, you can give them.”
Elara stepped forward then. Before Arthur could react, she reached out and pulled him into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Arthur,” she whispered against his ear. “You have been a blessing to this house. May the gods watch over you.”
Arthur couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even return the embrace properly; he felt too stained. He climbed onto the horse Tobias had brought, his eyes fixed on the small family standing before the small hut. As they rode away, the image of the children waving through their tears hurt more then his aching body.
Silently, he began the long ride back to Camelot, back to the High Lord, and to the punishment, that waited for him.
The ride back to Camelot was a blur. When the white towers of the city finally appeared on the horizon, Arthur didn’t feel the pride he once had. Instead, he felt a cold, hollow dread. He saw the city gates and didn’t think of glory; he thought of the men like Thomas who had been dragged through them to their deaths.
They entered the citadel in silence. There were no cheers, only the watchful eyes of the mages in their indigo robes. Tobias led him straight to the Great Hall.
Emrys sat on his throne of living wood, his golden gaze fixed on the doors as Arthur entered. Arthur did not wait for a command. He walked to the center of the hall and sank to his knees, his head bowed to the floor.
“You have returned,” Emrys said, his voice echoing in the vast space. “Tell me, Arthur Pendragon. How did you find your service?”
Arthur didn’t look up. “I found the truth, Lord Emrys,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I found that I am a murderer.”
Emrys stood and descended the steps, stopping just inches from Arthur. He could feel the power radiating from the High Lord, but Arthur did not flinch. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore.
“I saw the way you worked,” Emrys said softly. “I saw the way you shared your bread with the children of a man you murdered. I saw the tears you shed for a life you stole.”
Emrys reached out, and for a moment, Arthur thought he would strike him. Instead, the High Lord touched Arthur’s cheek.
“Your punishment was not the labor, Arthur. It was the knowledge. You have seen the faces of the ‘monsters’ you hunted. You have felt the warmth of their hearths and the salt of their tears.”
Emrys leaned closer, his voice a low, heavy promise. “The King of Camelot is dead. Now, the question remains: what shall I do with you?”
Arthur finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and filled with a pain so deep it surpassed any physical wound.
“Punish me,” Arthur whispered, his voice gaining a desperate strength. “Whatever you have planned, whatever darkness you have held back—do it. I deserve it. I deserve to feel every pain you can think of.”
He looked up at the High Lord, no longer seeing a conqueror or an enemy. “I understand now,” Arthur continued, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. “I understand why you came. Why you took my throne. Camelot didn’t need a king who built his walls on the bodies of innocent men. It needed to be saved… from me.”
Emrys looked down at him, his expression unreadable. The silence in the Great Hall was absolute, heavy with the weight of Arthur’s confession. The High Lord’s hand remained on Arthur’s cheek, his touch surprisingly cool.
“You ask for punishment,” Emrys said softly. “And when I conquered Camelot, I intended to destroy you without mercy.”
He moved his hand from Arthur’s cheek to his shoulder, his gaze piercing. “But then you did something a monster would never do: you dropped to your knees and begged for mercy—not for yourself, but for others. For your knights. For your people.”
Emrys’s voice dropped. “And so I ask you, Arthur Pendragon: what happened? How could this man—this brave, strong man who was willing to plead for the lives of others—murder innocent people?Does it not contradict everything you are?”
Arthur shook his head in agony, his breath coming in ragged hitches. “I never thought I could do such things,” he choked out. “I never believed I was capable of murdering innocents. But I did it. I did it, and nothing can ever make it right.”
Emrys listened silently. Then, he did something Arthur never expected: the High Lord sank down, kneeling on the cold stone floor and looked at Arthur with those glowing golden eyes.
“But why, Arthur?” Emrys asked, his voice almost a whisper now. “Why did you believe magic was evil? Why did you believe you had to destroy everyone who possessed it?”
Arthur hesitated, his mind racing through years of memories, of his father’s shouting, of burning villages and dark sorcerers. He searched for the truth in the wreckage of his past.
“Because I was taught it was so,” Arthur confessed, his voice trembling. “Because I saw magic used to hurt people a thousand times. I saw it used for revenge, for power, for death. I was surrounded by the scars it left behind… and I never knew. I never knew there were good people with magic. I never tried to find out the truth.”
Emrys nodded slowly, acknowledging the honesty in Arthur’s words. The tension in the hall seemed to shift, the ancient power humming in the air settling into a somber chord.
“And now?” Emrys asked, his eyes searching Arthur’s. “What do you know now?”
Arthur looked at his calloused, scarred hands—hands that had held both a king’s sword and a peasant’s axe. He looked at the man before him who held all the power in the world, yet chose to teach rather than slaughter.
“Now,” Arthur said, his voice breaking as the final walls of his old life crumbled away, “I know that it is not magic that makes a man a monster. It is the choices he makes. And I know, the monster in Camelot… is me.”
Emrys looked silently in Arthur in the eyes. Then he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You are not the monster in Camelot. For a long time, you made monstrous decisions. For a long time, you followed a monstrous law. But now that you know the truth, you have made a different choice.”
Emrys leaned closer, his voice steady and firm. “Never forget, Arthur: your actions may have been monstrous, but your heart never was.”
Arthur looked at Lord Emrys, and a fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes. “I wanted to help people,” he choked out, the words thick with agony. “I wanted to protect them. But instead…”
His voice broke completely. Emrys reached out and pulled Arthur into his arms, holding him as he collapsed.
Arthur wept. He wept for the lives he had taken, for the weight of his guilt, and for the hollow despair. He wept because he had tried so hard to do what was right, but had done something horrifying instead. All the fear, the exhaustion, and the silent torment of the last few months poured out of him. He sobbed into the arms of the man who was supposed to be his judge and executioner.
When Arthur’s sobs finally subsided and he grew still, Emrys gently pulled back. He reached up and wiped the tears from Arthur’s cheeks with the back of his hand.
“I am glad I did not kill you, Arthur Pendragon,” Emrys said softly. “The King of Camelot—the one who ruled by the sword alone—I would have destroyed without hesitation. But the man you truly are, deep inside… that is a man I would be proud to call a brother-monarch.”
Emrys stood up then, his robes rustling against the stone. He reached down and firmly grasped Arthur’s calloused hand, helping him to his feet. Arthur stood, trembling and exhausted.
Emrys looked toward the throne of living wood, then back to Arthur. “It is time,” Emrys said, his golden eyes glowing with a quiet respect. “It is time that I give you back your throne.”
Arthur was shocked by Emrys’s words. “You cannot do that,” he burst out, his voice cracking with disbelief. Emrys only offered a quiet, knowing smile.
“What if I make a mistake?” Arthur continued, his breath hitching. “What if I make monstrous decisions again?”
Emrys shook his head slowly. “Then you will make a mistake, Arthur. Being a good king does not mean being perfect. It does not even mean never doing something monstrous. Being a good king simply means that you serve your people with all your heart.”
Arthur breathed heavily and closed his eyes. He wanted to push Emrys’s words away, to hide from the terrifying weight of them, but deep inside, he knew the High Lord was right. No matter how good a king was, no matter how hard he tried —even a king was only a man. A man who made mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes had horrific consequences.
And in that moment of silence, Arthur understood the true burden of the crown. For a king, there is no punishment, no penance. The price a king must pay is far worse: he has to carry the weight of his failures.
When Arthur finally opened his eyes, he realized he had no choice. He could refuse the throne; he could run away and hide. But that would mean abandoning his people—and that was something Arthur would never do.
So Arthur reached out and firmly grasped the hand Emrys held out to him. And in that single gesture, he accepted not only his brother-monarch but also his throne.
Epilogue
The Great Hall of Camelot was filled with the light of a thousand candles, reflecting off the red and gold banners that once again draped the stone walls. Arthur sat upon the Pendragon throne, his posture regal, his knights standing in a disciplined line at his side.
Before him stood Lord Emrys. Only yesterday, they had signed the peace treaty that would change the fate of Albion forever. Now, the High Lord was prepared to return to his own lands.
Arthur watched him for a moment, then stood and descended the steps of the dais. As he reached the floor, he gestured for Emrys to walk with him. They moved several paces away from the court, finding a pocket of privacy near the tall, stained-glass windows.
“I wanted to thank you,” Emrys said quietly, his golden eyes soft. “Not just for the treaty, but for standing by what you learned and legalizing magic in Camelot.”
Arthur looked at Emrys, no longer flinching back from the gold “And I thank you, Emrys. For everything you taught me.”
They looked deep into each other’s eyes, a silent understanding passing between them—two leaders who had seen the worst of each other and still found someone worth respecting. Arthur reached out and took Emrys’s hand. In a gesture of deep gratitude, Arthur lowered his head, pressing the High Lord’s hand to his forehead.
“I will never forget what you taught me,” Arthur said, his voice steady as he looked up again.
Emrys offered a small, gentle smile. “And I will never forget the King who was brave and strong and won my respect.”
Arthur smiled weakly, and still thought he was not worthy. But Emrys looked in his eyes, and did not falter. And Arthur knew: his respect was honest and true.
Finally, he returned to his throne. Emrys gathered his men, the indigo-robed mages and silent warriors forming a column behind their lord. As Emrys turned to lead them out of the hall, Arthur watched his retreating figure.
It was strange, Arthur thought as the heavy oak doors began to close. For so long, he had seen only an enemy in magic and a monster in Emrys. But now, he no longer feared magic.
And Emrys might even some day be his friend.