The stone of the council chamber felt colder than it had a year ago. Or perhaps it was just Arthur.
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 had been eroded by the screams of his dying people.
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.”
The figure did not move. The silence was agonizing, a physical pressure that made Arthur’s lungs ache.
“But Camelot is dying,” Arthur choked out, his fingers clawing into the dirt. “Every night, the dead rise. They don’t differentiate between the guilty and the innocent. They are dragging children into the dark, Lord Emrys. Children who have never even heard the word ‘magic’ with anything but fear.”
Arthur bowed his head, baring his neck—a silent offer. “I know I won’t leave this forest alive. I accept that.”
He looked up then, though the Lord’s face remained hidden beneath a deep, shadowed hood. Arthur’s eyes were bloodshot, swimming with tears he no longer cared to hide.
“Let the punishment fall on me. I am the one who deserves to bleed. Take my life,” Arthur begged, his voice cracking. “Take it slowly. Let me suffer for every life I took in my father’s name. If you wish to see me broken, I will stay here and let you do with me what you will. Bind me, torture me, exile me —I do not care. I will give you my crown, my lands, my blood. I will not lift a finger to defend myself.”
He leaned forward, his forehead almost touching the High Lord’s boots, a position of total, terrifying vulnerability.
“You have the power to stop this,“ Arthur begged. “Please. Save my people!“
“You offer your life, Arthur Pendragon?” Emrys’s voice was not a single tone; it was a chorus of echoes, like many men speaking at once. “Your life is a fleeting thing. It is not enough to pay for the blood in these woods.”
Arthur looked up, his eyes wide and desperate. “Then tell me. Tell me the price. I will pay it. I swear it on my soul.”
Emrys stepped closer. The air grew cold, smelling of ozone and ancient earth.
“The dead rise because the balance of Albion is broken,” Emrys declared. “Your father tore the heart out of this land. To heal it, I do not want your death. I want your submission.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “I told you… I will give you the crown.”
“Not the crown,” Emrys hissed, his golden eyes flaring. “I want you. If I save Camelot, I shall return with you. You will remain King in name, but you shall be my vessel. Every decree you sign, every law you pass, every judgment you speak will be mine. You will be the hand that rebuilds what your father destroyed. You will sit on his throne and watch as magic returns to every street, every hearth, and every heart in Camelot. And you will never speak a word against it.”
Arthur felt a chill deeper than the winter frost. To be a puppet. To watch his father’s legacy be dismantled while he sat powerless to stop it. It was a fate worse than execution.
“And if I refuse?” Arthur whispered.
“Then tonight, the skeletons shall breach your Citadel,” Emrys replied coldly. “And by dawn, there will be no Camelot left to rule.”
Arthur closed his eyes. He saw Gwen’s face. He saw the faces of his knights. He saw the children in the lower town.
“I accept,” Arthur said, his voice a hollow echo. “Save them. I am yours.”
Emrys smiled, a sharp, predatory expression. He raised his hand, and the forest erupted in a blinding, golden light.
“Stand up, King,” Emrys commanded, the power in his voice throwing Arthur backward. “The sun is setting. We have a city to reclaim. And a new era to begin.”
As Arthur stood on shaking legs. He realized he had saved his people—but he had irrevocable sold himself.
The journey back to Camelot was a filled with hope and dread. Arthur rode half a pace behind the High Lord, his head bowed, the silver Pendragon crest on his cloak feeling like a mark of shame. Emrys rode through the forest, the mist parting before him as if afraid to touch his indigo robes.
As they reached the ridge overlooking the valley, night had fallen, and the dead were rising. Hundreds of skeletals were clawing at the walls, their silent, rhythmic scratching audible even from the heights.
“Look at them,” Emrys said, his voice a haunting whisper. “The restless victioms of your father’s ‘justice’. They hunger for the blood that birthed them.”
Arthur couldn’t answer. His throat had tightened, cutting off his voice.
The Gates of Dust
They reached the main gates just as the wood began to splinter under the weight of the dead. The knights on the battlements raised their bows, but Sir Leon’s voice rang out in confusion. “Hold! The King! The King is here!”
The gates groaned open just enough for Arthur and Emrys to pass. As soon as they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The air became heavy, static-charged.
“Stay back!” Arthur commanded his knights, his voice cracking. “Do not interfere! On your lives, stay back!”
Emrys stepped slowly into the center of the courtyard. Then, he raised both hands.
His indigo sleeves fell back, revealing arms etched with glowing, silver runes. He began to chant in the Tongue of the Old Religion.
“CUMEN FORTH!”
A dome of golden light erupted from Emrys. It hit the skeletons, and the effect was instantaneous. They turned to ash in mid-air. Within minutes, the courtyard was empty. Only a layer of fine, white dust remained, coating the boots of the terrified knights.
Emrys lowered his hands. Then, he turned to Arthur, a silent command in his gaze.
The Throne Room
The walk to the throne room was the longest of Arthur’s life. Silently, he followed the the Highlord, his new master.
In the Great Hall, the Council had gathered, their faces pale with a mix of relief and dread. Agravaine stepped forward, his eyes narrowing at the hooded figure.
“Arthur! You have saved us, but…? Who is this… this sorcerer?”
Arthur stepped onto the dais, but he did not sit on the throne. He stood beside it. He looked out at the men who had served his father, and then he looked at Emrys, who stood at the foot of the steps, watching him with an expectant, predatory patience.
“The threat is ended,” Arthur began, his voice devoid of its usual fire. “But the price of our survival is a new order. Lord Emrys… the High Lord of the Druids… will remain in Camelot.”
A gasp rippled through the room.
Arthur continued, the words tasting like poison. “No law shall be passed, no judgment rendered, and no decree signed without his seal. The ban on magic is lifted. From this day forth, the Old Religion is returned to its rightful place.”
“This is madness!” one of the elder lords cried, stepping forward. “You are handing our souls to a warlock!”
Emrys didn’t look at the lord. He looked at Arthur. “Your servant is speaking, King. Silence him.”
Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. He saw the flicker of gold in Emrys’s eyes—a reminder of the pact. If he faltered, if he resisted, the dead would return. He knew it.
“Silence!” Arthur roared, his voice breaking with the effort. “The decision is made. I am your King, and I have spoken.”
Arthur looked down at Emrys. He expected to see triumph, but the High Lord’s expression was one of cold observation.
“Sit,” Emrys commanded. It wasn’t a request.
Arthur sank into the throne—the heavy seat of his ancestors. It felt cold and unyielding.
Emrys climbed the steps of the dais, his robes whispering against the stone. He did not sit, but he stood directly behind Arthur, his hand resting on the back of the chair, his fingers inches from Arthur’s neck.
“The first decree,” Emrys whispered, leaning down so only Arthur could hear him, his breath smelling of bitter herbs. “Send word to the borders. All those with magic who were hunted… all those who live in fear… tell them the ban on magic is lifted. Camelot invites them home.”
Arthur closed his eyes, his knuckles white as he gripped the throne. And as the court descended into chaos and hushed whispers, a single tear slid down his face.
The transition was swift and merciless. Lord Emrys did not wait for the ink to dry on the new decrees before he began to dismantle the pride of the Pendragon line. He did not want Arthur’s head; he wanted Arthur’s humiliation—a living testament to the shift in power.
The first group of Druid refugees arrived three days later. They were a ragged line of survivors, many scarred from years of living in the damp shadows of the forests, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and hope as they crossed the drawbridge of the city that had once meant certain death.
Emrys stood on the balcony overlooking the main courtyard, his indigo robes snapping in the wind. Arthur stood a pace behind him, dressed not in his royal red, but in a simple, unadorned tunic of gray wool. No crown. No sword.
“Go,” Emrys commanded, not even turning to look at him. “The guests of the High Lord are weary. They have spent a lifetime fleeing your shadow, Arthur. It is time they saw you in a different light.”
“What would you have me do?” Arthur asked, his voice a hollow echo of its former self.
“Serve them,” Emrys replied, his golden eyes flashing with a cold, sharp mirth. “Go to the courtyard. Wash their feet. Carry their burdens. Show them that the King of Camelot has finally learned to kneel.”
The Courtyard of Penance
The courtyard was crowded and smelly. A group of Druid elders sat on the stone benches near the fountain, their faces etched with the weariness of the road.
Arthur descended the stairs slowly. Every knight he passed looked away, unable to meet his eyes. Sir Leon stood by the archway, his hand white-knuckled on his spear, his jaw trembling with a fury he was forbidden to voice.
Arthur reached the fountain. He picked up a wooden bucket and a cloth. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic drum of shame.
He approached an elderly Druid woman. Her hands were gnarled like oak roots, and her feet were caked with the mud of the valley. She flinched as Arthur knelt before her, her breath hitching in a sob of pure terror.
“Please…” she begged, her voice shaking. “I have done nothing, Sire. Please do not hurt me.”
“I am not here to hurt you,” Arthur whispered, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat. He forced himself to look down at her feet. “Lord Emrys has… he has requested that I welcome you.”
Arthur dipped the cloth into the cold water. And the King of Camelot, began to scrub the filth from the woman’s skin.
“You are the King,” a young Druid boy whispered, standing a few feet away. He looked at Arthur with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
Arthur burned with shame. He moved to the woman’s other foot, his movements methodical, his hands shaking. “Because I am a servant of the new Albion,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “And because I owe a debt that can never be paid.”
Arthur continued for hours. He moved from person to person. He hauled water until his muscles burned, and his hands—calloused from the sword but unused to manual labor—began to bleed from the rough hemp of the bucket.
At one point, a young man dropped a heavy bundle of firewood. Instinctively, Arthur moved to help him.
“I can do it, Sire,” the man said, his voice dripping with a bitter irony. “I wouldn’t want to stain the royal hands further.”
Arthur looked at the man. He saw the scars of a burn on his arm. He reached down, took the largest share of the wood, and carried it toward the fires. He did not speak. He did not complain. He allowed the Druids to see his humiliation, his fatigue, and his absolute submission.
The Breaking of the Will
As the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the courtyard, Emrys descended the stairs. The crowd parted like the sea before him. He walked straight to where Arthur was stacking the last of the crates, shaking and exhausted.
Emrys reached out, his long fingers tilting Arthur’s chin up. Arthur’s face was streaked with sweat and dirt, his hair damp against his forehead.
“Do you feel it, Arthur?” Emrys whispered coldly. “The weight of the lives you tried to end? Is the water cold enough to wash away the blood?”
Arthur looked into those swirling golden pools. There was no anger left in him, only a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. “I am doing as you commanded, Lord Emrys.”
“Indeed you are,” Emrys smiled, and for a moment, the gold flared with a terrifying intensity. “The people are beginning to whisper. They see their King serving those he hunted. They see you cowering in the dirt. It is a beautiful sight.”
Emrys turned to the gathered Druids, his voice rising. “See your King! See the man who hunted you! He is no longer your executioner. He is your servant! This is the justice of Emrys!”
A few of the Druids cheered, but many remained silent, looking at Arthur with a strange, empty eyes.
Arthur stood there, his body aching, his pride a destroyed—a hollow king who existed only to atone, day after day, until there was nothing left of the man named Arthur.
“Go to the kitchens,” Emrys commanded, turning back to the palace. “There is more work to be done. The High Lord expects his guests to be fed by the King’s own hand.”
Arthur bowed his head. “Yes, Lord Emrys.”
He walked toward the kitchens, his steps heavy, a King in name, a slave in spirit, walking a path of a penance that had no end.
The days in Camelot bled into each other. Each one a blur of exhaustion and submission. In the council chambers, Arthur was a ghost. He wore the crown, but it felt like lead. He sat on the throne, yet he did not speak. Every law he signed, every tax he diverted to the Druid settlements, destoryed more and more world he had lived for.
Emrys was a constant shadow. He watched Arthur from the corners of rooms, his golden eyes glittering with a predatory satisfaction. He was enjoying Arthur’s dwindling spirit, savoring the slow death of the Pendragon pride.
But in the courtyard, a different kind of transformation was taking place.
Arthur’s hands were calloused by the ropes and stained with the soap. But as the days dragged on, Arthur began to understand with a painful, aching clarity: These were not the sorcerers of his father’s nightmares. They were families. He saw mothers hushing crying infants, their eyes hollow with the trauma of a decade spent in hiding. He saw old men whose only “crime” was a memory of an older, kinder world.
The Breaking Point
Then came a morning when the mists were particularly thick. A new group arrived—ragged, skeletal people from the northern wastes. Arthur, dressed in his humble servant’s tunic, stepped forward to help an exhausted girl down from a cart.
The moment his eyes met hers, she froze. Her eyes blew wide, filled with a sudden, agonizing terror. Then, she began to scream.
It was a sound of pure, unadulterated horror. She scrambled backward, falling off the cart, her hands clawing at the dirt as she tried to get away from him. She screamed until her throat was raw, a piercing, jagged sound that brought the entire courtyard to a standstill.
Arthur jerked horrifed back. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed. “I mean you no harm!”
But she only screamed louder, her eyes fixed on his face as if she were looking at a devil.
Arthur turned to flee, to hide from that horrible sound, but he crashed into a solid wall of indigo silk. Emrys was standing directly behind him, his hands closed over Arthur’s shoulders like iron clamps. He blocked the path, forcing Arthur to stay and witness the girl’s desperate cries.
“Do you like what you see, Arthur?” Emrys asked. His voice was low, dangerous.
Arthur shook his head wildly, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
“Do you know why she looks at you and sees death?” Emrys leaned down, his lips close to Arthur’s ear. “Do you know why she cannot even breathe while you stand in her presence?”
“No,” Arthur whispered, his voice trembling. “I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her.”
“She was ten years old,” Emrys began, his voice dropping to a lethal, velvet hiss. “She lived in a small village near the White Mountains. She was hiding in a hayloft when the knights came. She watched through a knothole in the wood as her mother and father were dragged out. She watched as their throats were slit and their house was burned to ash. She spent three days hiding before she found the strength to run.”
Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. A cold, sickening dread began to pool in his stomach.
“And would you like to know,” Emrys continued, his grip tightening until Arthur’s collarbones ached, “who led that raid? Who gave the order to ‘leave no trace of the magical filth’ in that village?”
Arthur swallowed hard, his eyes stinging. He wanted to look away, but Emrys’s grip was unrelenting. “Please,” Arthur gasped. “Don’t.”
Emrys let out a dark, hollow chuckle that sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. He leaned in closer, his golden eyes flashing with a cruel, hateful light.
“It was you, Arthur,” Emrys whispered, the words hitting like a physical blow. “You alone. You were the hero of that massacre. To you, it was just another day of ‘cleansing’ your father’s kingdom. To her… you are worse than a monster.”
Arthur’s knees gave out, and he would have fallen if Emrys hadn’t held him up. He looked at the girl, who was still sobbing, curled into a ball on the stones, and finally understood what he had done.
“I didn’t know,” Arthur choked out, the tears finally spilling over. “I thought… I thought what I was doing was right.”
“And that,” Emrys said, his voice cold and mercyless, “is why you are on your knees today. Not just for your father’s sins, Arthur. But for your own.”
Emrys released him then, letting Arthur collapse into the dirt. The High Lord stepped over the broken King and walked toward the girl, his indigo robes sweeping over the stones.
Arthur stayed in the dirt, the girl’s screams echoing in his ears, realizing for the first time, his punishment was to easy.
Arthur remained on the ground, his palms pressed into the cold, grit-covered stone of the courtyard. The girl had stopped screaming, but her whimpering was worse—it was the sound of a wounded animal waiting for the final blow.
Emrys stood over him, a towering monolith of indigo and shadow. The sun seemed to dim as the High Lord’s presence expanded, chilling the air until Arthur’s breath came out in white plumes.
“Do you understand now, Pendragon?” Emrys asked softly. “You wondered why the dead rose in your city. You thought it was a curse from a vengeful sorcerer. You were wrong.”
Emrys knelt, his robes pooling around. He leaned in so close that Arthur could see the molten gold of his irises.
“They rose because the earth could no longer hold the injustice you buried in it,” Emrys hissed. “The soil of Camelot is drenched with the blood of the innocent. They are screaming, Arthur. They have been screaming for years, and you simply chose not to listen.”
Arthur closed his eyes tightly, hot tears fell down his cheeks. He saw the fire. He saw the steel. He saw the faceless villages he had “cleansed” in the name of a peace that was nothing but a lie.
“But the dead do not find rest easily,” Emrys continued, his voice dropping to a lethal, intimate whisper against Arthur’s ear. “I have sung them into a shallow sleep. I have woven a veil of magic to keep them beneath the grass. But they do not find peace. They are restless. They want out.”
Arthur swallowed hard, a knot of pure terror forming in his throat. He could almost feel the phantom touch of cold, skeletal fingers brushing against his ankles from beneath the stones.
“They will only find peace,” Emrys breathed, his voice dark and vengeful, “when they have torn their tormentor limb from limb. When they have tasted the blood of the man who ended their lives.”
Arthur’s breath hitched. He knew the legends of the restless dead—the Cailleach’s chosen. Their vengeance was not quick. It was a slow, agonizing tearing of flesh and spirit that could last for an eternity.
“They seek me?” Arthur’s voice was a thin, barely more than a breath. “Is it… is it my death that gives them rest? Truly?”
Emrys let out a low, dark laugh. He pulled back just enough to look Arthur in the eye, his expression terrifying.
“Of course, Pendragon. Only yours. Your heart, still beating, offered to the soil you stained. Your screams to answer theirs. Only then will they find peace.”
Fear, cold and paralyzing, gripped Arthur’s heart. He didn’t want to die—not like that. Not in the dark, being pulled into the dirt by the hands of those he had failed.
But then, he looked at the girl. She was staring at him now, her face a mask of hollowed-out grief, her entire life destroyed by a single command from his lips.
He looked at the Druids around him—people he had hunted, people he had finally begun to see as human.
The fear didn’t leave him, but it changed nothing. If his soul was the price for their peace, he no longer had the right to keep it.
Arthur took a jagged, shaky breath and looked up into the gold of Emrys’s eyes.
“Then let them have what they demand,” Arthur whispered, his voice nearly failing. “If my life is will give them peace… then let them take it.”
Emrys’s eyes widened slightly, the gold flaring with a flicker of something—surprise? Or vindictiveness. He stood up slowly, pulling Arthur with him, until they were eye to eye.
“A noble sacrifice,” Emrys mocked, though his voice lacked its previous bite. “Tonight, the moon will be black. We shall go to the fields of the fallen. And we shall see if you are as brave, as you believe when the dead comes to claim you.”
The night was dark and endless, as Lord Emrys led Arthur out of the city. They walked in total silence, the only sound the rhythmic clack of Emrys’s staff against the frosted ground and the ragged, shallow breathing of the King. Arthur felt choked by fear. Every step was a battle not to turn and run, to hide, to beg for one more sunrise.
But Emrys’s hand was firm on his shoulder, cold and unrelenting.
They reached the Fields of the Fallen—a vast, uneven expanse of earth beyond the northern walls where the nameless dead of the Great Purge had been tossed into shallow graves. The air was thick, tasting of iron and old rot.
Emrys lead Arthur to the center and stepped back.
“The veil is thin here, Arthur Pendragon,” Emrys whispered, his voice echoing from every direction at once. “The earth remembers.”
Emrys raised his arms. A low, guttural chant began to pour from his lips—a song of the deep places, of roots and shadows. He struck his staff into the ground, and a ripple of golden light tore through the grass, cracking the frozen surface of the earth.
The Rising
The ground began to heave.
Arthur’s breath hitched in a sob. He watched, paralyzed by a primal, soul-deep panic, as the soil buckled. From the cracks, the dead began to emerge. They were not the mindless skeletons that had attacked the city; they were worse. They were spirits of the men, women, and children Arthur had hunted.
They bore the marks of their ends. Arthur saw a man with a throat opened by a sword; a woman who were charred black by the pyre; a child whose small chest was pierced by a crossbow bolt.
Dozens of them. Then hundreds.
They closed in around Arthur, silent and terrible. Their faces were twisted in expressions of such profound, agonizing sorrow that Arthur felt his own mind begin to fracture. He saw the light fading from their phantom eyes, the way they clutched at wounds that would never heal. He saw the terror he had put there.
Arthur fell to his knees, his entire body shaking with a violent, uncontrollable tremor. The cold was absolute—it wasn’t just on his skin; it was in his blood, his bones, his memories. The spirits pressed closer, their translucent fingers reaching out, hovering inches from his face.
He was terrified. His skin crawled with the urge to scream, to fight, to beg for mercy. His heart was a frantic drum, pleading for life. But as he looked into the hollow eyes of a mother holding a spectral, motionless babe, the panic was drowned by a wave of devastating remorse.
He began to weep. Not for his own death, but for theirs.
“I see you,” Arthur choked out, his voice a hoarse, ragged sob. “I see what I did.”
The spirits moved in closer, their coldness biting into him. They were waiting to tear him apart – limp for limp.
Arthur looked up at the sea of tormented faces, his eyes swimming with tears. “I am sorry,” he whispered, the words trembling on his lips. “I am so… so deeply sorry.”
He took a jagged breath, his voice cracking and desperate. “I know my blood cannot wash away the stains. I know my pain cannot bring you back. I know that even an eternity of suffering could never outweigh the horror I brought to your lives.”
The spirits slowed their circling. They leaned in, their cold breath smelling of damp earth.
“But I am here,” Arthur cried, his voice giving out. “I am here to give myself to completely. I am here to suffer. I am here to die for you. If my agony can quiet your screams… if my end can bring you peace… then take it. Please. Make me suffer.”
He bowed his head, his forehead pressing into the frozen dirt of the mass grave.
“I am sorry,” he whispered one last time into the dark. “I am so sorry.”
The cold was sharp blade and deadly.
Arthur remained pressed against the frozen earth, his lungs burning with the icy air. He felt them now—ghostly, feather-light touches on his shoulders, his hair, and his back. It was the sensation of a thousand winter breaths grazing his skin. He braced himself, jaw clenched, waiting for the first violent tear, the agonizing suffering.
But the pain did not come. There was only weeping.
Then, the earth began to soften.
It was subtle at first—the frost giving way to a muddy warmth. But then, the ground seemed to lose its solidity altogether. The earth opening like a dark, deep, grave.
Panic, primal and fierce, flared in his chest. I’m being buried alive, his mind screamed. His muscles coiled, every instinct screaming at him to push, to fight.
He gasped, his fingers clawing at the grass, but then he caught sight of a spirit directly in front of him. It was a young girl, her face pale, watching him with a quiet, expectant stillness.
Arthur forced his fingers to relax. He let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped back into the soil. If this is the end, he thought, his heart finally finding a steady, somber beat, then let it be. He closed his eyes and allowed the darkness to take him deeper.
The soil rose over him. His waist, his chest, his shoulders. It was a heavy, crushing pressure, but it wasn’t the agony he had feared. The weight pressed against his ribs, making it hard to breathe. Just before the soil covered his face, he heared a single, soft voice:
“Rest, Arthur Pendragon.”
Then, the earth closed over his head and the dead claimed him.
Arthur woke to the sound of a lark and the warmth of the sun. He was lying on thick, soft grass and the air smelled of flowers and summer honey. There was no cold, no mud, and no scent of rot.
He sat up slowly, shielding his eyes against a sky that was a perfect blue. Then, he saw the people.
Dozens of them, hundreds, were scattered across the meadow. They were dressed in simple, clean linen. They were laughing. Children were chasing butterflies through high wildflowers, and men and women were sitting in circles, sharing bread and stories. There was an air of profound, unshakable peace.
Suddenly, a small blur of movement caught his eye. A little girl, no older than seven, came running through the grass. Her golden hair caught the light as she ran directly toward him. Before Arthur could speak, she threw her small arms around his neck, hugging him with all her strength.
Arthur froze, his heart hammering—not with fear, but with a sudden, overwhelming recognition. It was the girl from the grave. The one whose gaze had been the last thing he saw before the earth swallowed him. But here, her eyes were not hollow or haunted; they were bright and full of life.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his ear. She pulled back and beamed at him, a radiant, gap-toothed smile.
One by one, more people began to approach him. They didn’t come with blades or accusations. They came with gentle smiles and nods of acknowledgement. And as Arthur looked into their faces, the realization hit him with the force of a physical blow.
These were his victims. The boy from the northern raid. The weaver from the village he had burned. The healer who had been executed in the square. They were all here, and they were whole.
And they no longer hated him. They spoke to him, told im their names, their stories. Time held no meaning, als he finally learned, what he never bothered to ask when they were alive. And one after another, they forgave him.
Arthur cried. Silent tears of pain, shame, and gratefulness.
And as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Arthur finally felt at peace. He found a massive, ancient oak tree, lay down in the soft moss and watched the first stars blink into existence. After some time, he closed his eyes, the laughter of the children still echoing faintly in the distance. And slowly, he drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.
The transition was violent.
The warmth vanished, replaced by a biting, midnight frost. The smell of honey was gone, usurped by the iron tang of the earth.
Arthur gasped, his eyes snapping open. He was lying flat on his back in the middle of the mass grave outside Camelot. The dirt beneath him was frozen and hard. The spirits were gone. The silence of the night was absolute, save for the distant, lonely howl of a wolf.
He felt a shadow fall over him.
Arthur looked up. Emrys was standing over him, his indigo robes dark against the starless sky. The High Lord’s face was unreadable—grave, solemn, and stripped of the cruel mockery he had worn before. He looked at Arthur with an intensity that seemed to weigh his very soul.
“You have returned,” Emrys said, his voice low in the cold air.
Arthur sat up slowly, his limbs stiff, his face still damp with the tears he had shed in the realm of the dead. He looked at his hands, then back at the dark, empty field. He was back in the world of men, but the light of that golden realm still burned behind his eyelids.
“I have returned,” Arthur answered, his voice hoarse. He looked up at Emrys, no longer flinching from the gold in the Druid’s eyes. “They… they are at peace.”
Emrys watched him for a long moment, then extended a hand to help the King up.
The walk back to the Citadel was like a dream. Arthur stumbled through the gates, his boots heavy with the mud of the mass grave, but he did not feel the sting of the cold. His mind was still caught in the golden light of the meadow, by the feeling of a small girl’s arms around his neck.
Emrys did not speak. He kept a firm hand on Arthur’s elbow, guiding him through the silent stone corridors of the castle. When they reached the royal chambers, the High Lord pushed the doors open and gestured for Arthur to sit in the chair by the hearth.
With a flick of his fingers and a whispered word in the Old Tongue, the fire roared to life, casting a flickering orange glow across Arthur’s pale, tearstreaked face. Emrys stepped into the hallway and spoke to a servant in a low voice. A short time later, a tray was brought in: a simple meal of fresh bread, a bowl of steaming broth, and a cup of spiced, warm wine.
Arthur watched him, his brow furrowed in confusion. The cruelty that had defined Emrys for weeks—the mockery, the sharp edges, the hunger for Arthur’s suffering—seemed to have vanished for the night.
“Eat,” Emrys commanded, though the word lacked its usual bite.
Arthur obeyed mechanically. He tore a piece of bread, dipping it into the broth. As he ate, he found his thoughts drifting back to the realm he had visited. He thought of the man with the mended throat, the woman who was no longer burned, and the children who played without fear. A profound, quiet joy settled in his chest. For the first time in days, the crushing weight of guilt had lifted, replaced by the knowledge that they were safe. That they were happy.
A small, genuine smile played at the corners of Arthur’s lips as he stared into the fire.
Emrys stood by the window, his golden eyes fixed on the King. He watched the smile, his expression unreadable.
“You smile, Pendragon?” Emrys asked softly. “After everything you have done?”
Arthur looked up, his voice a peaceful. “I saw them, Emrys. I saw what they have become. I am glad. I am truly glad.”
Emrys stayed silent for a long time, the only sound the crackling of the logs in the hearth.
Finally, the High Lord walked over to the bed and pulled back the heavy furs. “You have done enough for tonight. Come.”
Arthur rose, his legs feeling like lead. He allowed Emrys to lead him to the bed. He was too exhausted to question the strangeness of the moment— the most powerful sorcerer in the world was tending to him like a servant.
Arthur lay down, and Emrys pulled the covers up, tucking the furs around his shoulders with a slow, deliberate grace. Arthur looked up at the hooded figure, his eyes heavy, his mind beginning to fog.
Emrys reached out, placing a cool, steady hand over Arthur’s forehead.
“Sleep, Arthur,” Emrys said. His voice impossibly soft and strangely tender. “Sleep.”
Arthur felt a wave of absolute, irresistible lethargy wash over him. He didn’t fight it. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes fluttering shut.
Then, there was only the dark, and for the first time in a year, the King’s dreams were filled with nothing but light.
The next morning, Emrys was already there when Arthur opened his eyes. The High Lord had already prepared a tray of fresh fruit, warm bread, and honeyed tea. He did not speak much, merely ensuring Arthur was fed and restored. Once the meal was finished, Emrys gestured toward the door. “Come, Pendragon. There is one last thing you must accept.”
Arthur gave a quiet nod. The dead had spared him. It was only right that Emrys should now deliver the punishment of the living.
They walked out of the Citadel together. The air was crisp and smelled of spring rain. When they reached the Fields of the Fallen—the place of last night’s terror—Arthur stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat.
The earth was no longer scarred or black. The jagged cracks where the dead had clawed their way out were gone. Instead, the entire field filled with green grass. Flowers—white lilies, blue cornflowers, and red poppies—bloomed in thick clusters, swaying gently in the breeze. It didn’t look like a grave; it looked like a paradise.
Arthur looked around in stunned silence, his heart full of awe. Finally, Emrys spoke, his voice low and steady.
“The debt is paid, Arthur,” the High Lord said. “You offered the dead exactly what they demanded: your beating heart. You did not fight them. You drenched this soil with your tears and surrendered your life as a sacrifice. In that total surrender, the spirits were not fed by your blood, but by your truth. They have found their rest.”
Arthur turned to look at Emrys, his brow furrowed with a lingering confusion. “I thought… I thought I would have to die.”
Emrys shook his head slowly. “Camelot can finally heal now. Because the King was willing to die for his crimes.”
Arthur went still, listening intently.
“Camelot is at peace,” Emrys continued, “because you no longer look at my pepople and see ‘sorcerers’ who deserved their fate. You no longer look at the refugees entering your city and see monsters or threats to your crown.”
Emrys stepped closer, his golden eyes searching Arthur’s face. “What you see now—for the first time in your life—are people. Ordinary people who simply happen to have the gift of magic. You see mothers, fathers, and children. You see the citizens you were sworn to protect, not destroy.”
Arthur froze. Then, he realized Emrys was right. The cornerstones, that had defined his world—magic, sorcery, evil—had dissolved in the heat of his own grief. He didn’t see a warlock standing before him now; he saw a powerful being who cared for his kin. He didn’t see “magical filth” in the courtyard; he saw people.
A profound sense of shame, sharper than any sword, pierced him, but it was quickly followed by a clarity he had never known.
“I see them now,” Arthur said, his voice firm and clear. “I see all of them.”
“And that,” Emrys said, his voice echoing with a quiet, solemn power, “is why you are finally, for the first time in your life, truly ready to be Camelot’s King.”
Arthur looked at the High Lord and shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I am no King. I am your puppet, Emrys. I have earned this. I deserve to be used, to be directed, because my own judgment only brought death.”
He looked at his calloused palms, the hands that had washed away the mud of refugees. “I am exactly where I belong. As your servant.”
But the air in the meadow suddenly shifted. The wind died down, and the golden light in the sky seemed to focus entirely on the space between them.
Then, the High Lord did something unbelievable.
Slowly, deliberately, Emrys sank to his knees und lowered his head. The man who could command the dead, the man who held Camelot in his palm, was kneeling at Arthur’s feet.
“Lord Emrys?” Arthur gasped, stepping back in shock. “What are you doing? Stand up!”
“I am not a tyrant, Arthur Pendragon,” Emrys said, his voice now devoid of any magic or artifice. It was humble, steady, and filled with hope. “I did not come to Camelot to rule. I did not come to punish you. I came to find a King who could carry the weight of Albion.”
Emrys looked up, his golden eyes glowing with a warmth that was no longer terrifying.
“If you are ready to love the people of magic as your own, if you are ready to protect them as fiercely as any other citizen of Camelot, ” Emrys whispered reverently, “then you are the King I swear to serve.”
He bowed his head once more, his forehead nearly touching Arthur’s boots.
Arthur fell to his knees before Emrys. His breath came in ragged hitches, his voice trembling with a desperate, raw confusion.
“Why?” Arthur asked, the word breaking in his throat. “Why are you doing this? Why do you kneel? Why are you letting me go?”
He reached out as if to stop Emrys, his hands hovering mid-air, uncertain. “Have I not earned my punishment? Am I not the one who brought the darkness? Surely… surely there is another. Another man, another king, who is better suited. Someone whose hands are not stained as mine are.”
Emrys looked up then, his golden eyes locking onto Arthur’s with an intensity that seemed to pin the King’s soul to the earth. He did not look at Arthur as a master looks at a servant, nor as a judge at a criminal.
“The man who walked into the Druid’s forest, who knelt before the High Lord and sacrificed everything he was—his pride, his throne, his very life—simply to save his people… that man is a King worth following,” Emrys said. „But you needed to see!“
His gaze softened, a profound and ancient sadness flickering in the depths of his eyes as he searched Arthur’s face.
“I wish,” Emrys whispered, his voice tinged with regret, “you had been taught from childhood to embrace magic rather than to fear it. I wish you had been allowed to see the beauty before you were forced to see the blood.”
He reached out, his hand steady and warm as he gestured toward the horizon of Camelot.
“But because you have finally learned to accept magic, magic will embrace you. Because you have learned to see the humanity in us, my people will swear their lives to you. And I…”
Emrys bowed his head slightly, a small smile touching his lips.
“I shall serve you, Arthur Pendragon. You are my king.”
Arthur remained on his knees for a long time. Finally, he reached out and placed his hands over Emrys’s. He felt the steady pulse of a power that could have destroyed him, but chose instead to save him. And he was greatful.
“I do not know if I can ever be the King you see in me,” Arthur said, his voice quiet. “But I will spend every day of my life trying to be the King my – our – people deserve.”
Emrys stood and offered his hand to Arthur. As Arthur took it and rose to his feet, he felt the last of the invisible chains—the guilt, the fear, and the shadow of his father—fall away. He was no longer a puppet, and he was no longer a tyrant. He was a man who had walked through the valley of death and found beyond all expectations forgiveness.
Together, they walked back toward the white walls of Camelot. As they crossed the drawbridge, the guards did not draw their swords, and the people did not flee. They stopped and watched as their King returned, with the High Lord of the Druids walking by his side.
In the years that followed, the songs of the bards changed. They sang of the King who knelt in the mud and the Sorcerer who stood in the light. They sang of great peace.
And in the quiet moments when the sun set over a city filled with the laughter of children and the shimmering lights of harmless spells, Arthur would look at Emrys—no longer his judge and executioner, but his closest friend—and be greatful.
The debt was paid. The land was whole.
And together, they guided Camelot into an age of peace, prosperity, light and magic.