Camelot, 542 AD
In the heart of a bustling Camelot, the Festival of Pentecost was in full swing, the castle grounds thrumming with the energy of a kingdom at the height of its glory. Bright banners snapped in the wind, each bearing the emblem of a knight or a noble house from across the realms. The air was filled with the sounds of minstrels playing lively tunes, the clash of swords from the melee pits, and the cheers of the crowd that gathered to watch the jousting. The scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers that decorated the castle grounds.
King Arthur, young and resplendent in his royal attire, sat high upon the dais with Queen Guinevere by his side. His eyes sparkled with pride and joy as he watched his knights compete, demonstrating the valor and skill that his reign had cultivated. Among the competitors, Sir Lancelot, his closest friend and champion of the realm, was a crowd favorite, his prowess unmatched even by the fiercest of rivals. The bonds between them were not just those of king and knight, but of brothers-in-arms, forged through countless battles and shared victories.
The joust was a spectacle of chivalric pageantry. Knights charged at each other with lances aimed, their armor gleaming under the afternoon sun. The crowd erupted as Lancelot unhorsed another challenger, the defeated knight tumbling into the soft earth of the list field. The clash of metal and the roar of the crowd created a symphony of battle that stirred the hearts of all present.
"Another victory for Lancelot!" Arthur exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight, though his voice carried a note of concern only Guinevere could detect.
"Lancelot fights like a man possessed," Guinevere said, leaning closer to Arthur. Her eyes scanned the field, where Lancelot basked in the adoration of the crowd. "He seems more intent on proving something than merely enjoying the festival. There's a desperation in his movements—as if he's not just competing, but exorcising some invisible torment. Each strike of his lance feels less like sport and more like a battle against something within."
"He bears a heavy burden," Arthur replied, his tone softening. "But I fear we all do."
Guinevere turned to him, her brow furrowing. "Arthur, do you ever wonder if these burdens will break us?"
Arthur smiled gently, taking her hand. "As long as we stand together, my queen, we can bear any weight."
As the festivities continued, Arthur noticed Merlin approaching the royal dais. His deep blue robes swirled around him, a symbol of his stature as King Arthur's advisor. "Sire, the people rejoice in the peace and prosperity you have brought to this land," Merlin said, his voice carrying over the din of celebration.
"Thanks to your counsel, Merlin," Arthur replied, nodding respectfully to the wizard who had guided him since his days as a squire. "You and the Knights of the Round Table have been the backbone of this kingdom."
Merlin inclined his head, his gaze thoughtful. "And yet, even the strongest backbone can be strained, my king."
Among the knights seated nearby, Sir Gawain and Sir Percival nodded in acknowledgment, their expressions reflecting the bond of brotherhood that unified Arthur's court. Sir Bors, ever watchful, glanced toward Lancelot, his brow furrowing as if sensing the underlying tension.
Arthur's eyes followed Lancelot as he dismounted. The knight moved with practiced ease, bowing briefly to the crowd before retreating into the shade of the awnings. There, he lingered—neither joining the other knights nor accepting congratulations. His gaze met Guinevere's across the field only briefly, an unreadable flicker passing between them before he turned away.
From a distance, Merlin watched him too, his lips pressed in a thin line. "He walks like a man burdened not with armor, but with ghosts."
Arthur gave a slight nod. "Let's hope those ghosts do not lead him astray."
During a lull in the tournaments, as the evening feast was being prepared, a hooded figure approached the king. She was an elderly woman, her face lined with the wisdom and weariness of one who had seen much of the world's darkness and light. Her eyes, though clouded with age, held a sharpness that belied her frail appearance. "A word, my lord," she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of a grave prophecy.
Intrigued, Arthur gestured for her to speak. "The bonds of this great kingdom will be tested," she began, her eyes flickering with the flames of the nearby torches. "Betrayal will come from within, and the heart of Camelot will break before it bends." Gasps rippled through the court like a sudden wind. Guinevere's hand tightened around the armrest of her seat, her eyes darting to Lancelot, whose jaw visibly clenched. Even Merlin's brow furrowed, a rare crack in his usually composed expression."
The court fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Sir Kay, Arthur's foster brother, muttered something under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the woman. "Who dares bring such ill news to the king?" he growled.
Arthur raised a hand to calm him. "Peace, Kay. Let her speak."
The woman stepped closer, her presence commanding the attention of all around her. The hood of her cloak fell back, revealing hair as white as snow and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of countless ages. She stood before the king, unbowed, her gaze unwavering.
Merlin stepped forward, his eyes piercing into the woman's, trying to discern the truth behind her words. "What is your name, wise woman, and what brings you to our court with such dire prophecy?"
The woman's gaze shifted to Merlin, and for a moment, it seemed as if she peered into his very soul. "I am Anwen, a seer from the northern lands. I come with a warning that must be heeded if Camelot is to withstand the trials ahead."
Arthur's expression softened, though the weight of her words pressed heavily upon him. "Speak your warning, Anwen. We are prepared to hear what you have to say."
Anwen took a deep breath, her eyes sweeping over the gathered knights and nobles. "The shadows lengthen in places unseen. The trust you hold dear will be shattered by those closest to you. Darkness festers within the heart of Camelot, and it will rise when you least expect it. Only through unity and unwavering vigilance can you hope to withstand what is to come."
The crowd murmured, their unease palpable. Sir Gawain stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "You speak of betrayal, seer. How can we trust your words?"
Anwen's eyes hardened. "I do not ask for trust, only readiness. Threads fray where joy gathers. The wound that cuts deepest comes from the trusted hand."
Arthur stepped closer to Merlin, lowering his voice. "We must be vigilant. Anwen's words, though shrouded in mystery, align with the unease I have felt in recent times. There are forces at play that seek to disrupt the peace we have fought so hard to maintain."
Arthur nodded, his expression grave. "Then we shall heed her warning. We will strengthen our bonds, watch for signs of discord, and trust in each other to protect Camelot."
As Anwen took her leave, her warning lingered in the air, a somber note amidst the festive atmosphere. Arthur watched her go, feeling a mix of dread and determination. He vowed silently to uncover the source of this impending betrayal, to shield Camelot from the darkness that loomed.
As night fell and the feast began, an unnatural storm brewed without warning. Dark clouds swallowed the stars, and a fierce wind whipped through the castle grounds, extinguishing torches and throwing the celebration into chaos. The merriment turned to confusion and fear as guests hurried to secure the tents and stalls against the howling gale.
Sir Gawain stood up, drawing his sword, as if to fight off the storm. "What sorcery is this?" he shouted above the howling wind.
Merlin stood, his staff raised, and chanted incantations that shimmered in the air. With a mighty crack, the storm abated, dispelled by his powerful magic. Whispered speculations and awe spread through the crowd, but the disturbance left a mark on the festivities, a reminder of the seer's ominous words.
Arthur noticed the gargoyle Thalorin, leader of the gargoyles, perched high on a castle parapet, his stone eyes scanning the horizon. The gargoyles had long been allies of Camelot, their loyalty forged through Arthur's efforts to protect them from persecution. Thalorin's presence, usually a comfort, now added to the sense of foreboding. The gargoyles, created by the gods as protectors against evil, were bound to their duty as much as Arthur was to his.
Arthur took a deep breath, the weight of the day's events settling upon him. The festival had brought joy and celebration, but it had also unearthed old fears and new threats. As he looked around at his court, at the loyal faces of his knights and the watchful eyes of his allies, he knew that the peace they had built was fragile. And he vowed to protect it, no matter the cost.
Later that night, after the feast had quieted and the great hall had emptied, Arthur stood alone on a stone balcony overlooking the moonlit city. In his hand, he held the obsidian pendant gifted by Morgan. It pulsed faintly with warmth, a reminder that even in celebration, shadows crept. He turned it in his fingers, feeling the weight not just of stone, but of destiny.
Far below, the sounds of Camelot softened into lullaby—the city slumbering under a sky half-clouded, half-clear. And for a moment, Arthur saw the vision of a younger self in the reflection of the pendant's surface—a boy crowned in hope. Yet beneath the calm, his thoughts churned with quiet dread. He feared not the war to come, but what it might cost—trust lost, friendships shattered, and the soul of Camelot itself. Still, his resolve held firm, a silent promise carved into the night.
He closed his hand around the pendant.
The storm had passed. But the reckoning was still to come. city slumbering under a sky half-clouded, half-clear. And for a moment, Arthur saw the vision of a younger self in the reflection of the pendant's surface—a boy crowned in hope.
He closed his hand around the pendant.
The storm had passed. But the reckoning was still to come.