The stone battlements of Camelot gleamed under the high afternoon sun, towering over streets jammed tight with shouting townspeople, wool merchants, and dusty traveling peasants from the surrounding countryside.
Banners bearing the golden dragon swept lazily in the warm breeze, framing the heavy timber tournament grounds erected in the heart of the lower city square.
The air smelled of roasting sausages, sweet ale, sawdust, and hot horse leather.
High above the arena, positioned on a draped wooden balcony overlooking the grand ring, stood the King.
The crown of Britain rested light and gold upon a brow unmarred by heat or human fatigue.
Clear blue eyes stared out over the surging crowd below—calm, serene, and steady as mountain ice.
Beside the royal seat, a broad-shouldered knight with dark purple hair stepped forward.
His plate armor rang softly with a deep metallic cadence as he dropped smoothly onto one knee, resting a gauntleted right hand over his sternum and bowing his head toward the throne.
“My King,” Lancelot said, his voice deep, resonant, and careful.
“If I may ask…
why call an open trial for the Round Table today?
The realm stands at peace, the outer borders are quiet, and our ranks are whole.”
The King did not turn.
Her head remained fixed toward the eastern gates, where the rising dust of the lower trade roads drifted into the bright blue sky.
“Whole?” The King’s voice was smooth, cool, and effortless, carrying clearly over the roar of the crowd below.
“A table is only as complete as the fate it attracts.
Do you find an open challenge pointless, Lancelot?”
“Never pointless, my Liege,” Lancelot answered smoothly, rising to his feet and resting his left hand lightly upon the pommel of Arondight.
“Only unexpected.
But if it is the King’s will to test the realm’s wandering steel, we shall observe.”
“Then observe,” the King murmured, her quiet gaze settling on the far rim of the city wall.
“Destiny rarely announces itself, Lancelot.
Today it simply arrives.”
“Huff…
huff…
oh, man…”
Mordred leaned her heavy iron forearm against the rough granite of Camelot’s outer archway, her chest rising and falling in deep, metallic heaves inside her heavy breastplate.
Hot breath fogged her visor with every exhale, tasting faintly of iron, dust, and dried sweat.
‘Note to self,’ she thought, rolling her sore shoulders to settle the heavy weight of her horned iron pauldrons.
‘If you’re heading to the single biggest knight trial of the century, don’t stop to admire the local smithies.
Don’t stop to taste the honey cakes.
And definitely don’t spend two hours taking the long scenic route around ancient stone ruins because you got distracted by a pretty river.
My timing is absolute garbage.’
She wiped a dried streak of mud off her left knee joint with a leather-gloved thumb, then straightened up, adjusting the thick leather scabbard at her hip where her red-and-white broadsword rested, its latent magical pulse humming lazily against her leg.
An elderly cobbler carrying a sprawling, top-heavy bundle of scrap leather came shuffling past the stone archway, his head bowed low as he tried to navigate the heavy midday foot traffic.
Mordred leaned down, giving a friendly, crooked wave of her gauntlet as her monstrous, horned iron faceplate dropped straight into his line of sight.
“Hey—excuse me, pal!” she called out through the narrow eye-slits, her voice echoing out of the metal helmet like a brass kettle in a tiny kitchen.
“Where are they holding the trial fights?!”
The cobbler gasped.
His eyes bulged wide as he took in the towering, horned iron silhouette leaning over him.
His knees wobbled once, his top-heavy bundle of leather hit the cobblestones with a dull, echoing slap, and his eyes rolled straight back into his head.
He went limp, collapsing flat onto his back in the middle of the road.
Mordred froze, her open steel gauntlet hovering awkwardly in mid-air.
‘Wait…
did I just kill him?’ she panicked internally.
She dropped down onto one knee, gently poking the old man’s linen sleeve with an iron-clad pinky finger.
A moment later, the old man let out a long, loud, raspy snore.
‘Okay.
Just fainted.
Thank god.
Very fragile,’ she muttered under her breath.
She carefully gathered up his scattered leather scraps, stacked them in a neat pile directly on top of his stomach, and then grabbed him by his leather belt, dragging him out of the bustling street and placing him comfortably under the shade of an alehouse porch.
“Stay out of the sun, pal,” she said, tapping his knee twice before standing up and dusting off her leather-reinforced pants.
“Enjoy the nap.”
“Scaring elderly tradesmen in the shade isn’t exactly page one of the chivalric handbook, is it?”
Mordred snapped her head around, her right hand dropping instinctively toward the white leather wrap of her hilt.
“Who’s there?!”
“Easy, easy,” a voice called out smoothly from the narrow alley shadow beside the alehouse.
A young man stepped out into the bright sunlight, his stride completely effortless and light.
He wore pristine silver armor trimmed with deep blue fabric, a short, elegant cloak draped casually over his left shoulder.
His hair was soft, dark brown, and perfectly kept, framing a face so clean and bright it looked like it belonged on a hand-painted glass cathedral window.
He smiled, holding up two bare, open palms in a gesture of pure, unbothered warmth.
“I really didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice warm, friendly, and entirely free of edge.
“I’m Galahad.”
Mordred squinted through the narrow visor slits, her hand easing an inch off her pommel.
‘Galahad?’ she thought, taking him in.
‘The boy miracle?
The pristine knight who’s supposed to find the Holy Grail and be whisked straight up to heaven because he’s too pure for earth?
He looks like a poster boy for a cathedral boys’ choir.’
She let out a low, amused huff, a small smile breaking out behind her visor.
“Che.
Lucky you.”
Galahad tilted his head, his easy smile remaining completely intact as he casually surveyed her towering helmet, the broad iron plates, and the heavy red-and-white sword strapped to her hip.
“I saw you coming through the main gate,” Galahad said, taking an easy step closer.
“Your armor is…
well, it’s certainly unique!
I don’t think I’ve ever seen horns quite that long on a helm before.
And I couldn’t help hearing you ask about the tournament grounds.
You came for the Round Table selection, right?”
Mordred crossed her arms over her breastplate, the iron joints clanking loudly in the narrow street.
“What’s it to you, shiny?”
“Nothing bad at all!” Galahad laughed softly, waving a hand in the air.
“It’s just that the lower streets here are an absolute labyrinth if you don’t know the turnings.
The trials have already started over in the main square.
I can show you the way if you’d like company.”
Mordred narrowed her eyes behind the steel mask, eyeing his open, relaxed posture.
‘He’s actually being nice,’ she realized, feeling a strange flicker of mild awkwardness.
‘His tone is so warm it feels completely unearned for a stranger.
It’s almost annoying how hard it is to find something to hold against him.’
“I don’t need a tour guide, kid,” she muttered, turning her head squarely toward the street.
She took three long, confident strides down the cobblestone path, arrived at a wide four-way intersection, stopped dead in her tracks, looked left, looked right, and then cleared her throat loudly inside her helmet.
“…Which turn was it again?”
Galahad chuckled softly, stepping past her with a friendly wave of his arm.
“Left at the baker’s, then straight through the arch.
Follow me!”
They cut through three narrow side streets, the sound of roaring crowds, clashing metal, and booming announcements growing louder with every step until the alley opened up onto the sandy rim of the central square.
The temporary wooden arena was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of cheering onlookers.
On the raised dirt stage in the center, two heavy knights in full harness were locked in a fierce exchange of broadswords.
Blades struck with heavy, metallic ringing, sending bright sparks flying into the loose dirt.
With a sweeping parry, a veteran knight in battered gray armor knocked his opponent’s sword spinning straight into the timber barrier, stepping forward to place the flat of his blade directly against the fallen man’s collarbone.
The surrounding crowd erupted into loud cheers and applause.
“A fine bout!” Galahad said brightly, turning around with an eager look.
“The guard control on that last parry was really quite—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
The space right beside him was completely empty.
“Mordred?” Galahad blinked, looking left and right along the edge of the crowd.
“Where did…
wait, already?!”
Down in the arena ring, the victorious gray-armored knight raised his sword toward the King’s high balcony, soaking in the roars of the crowd with a broad, chest-puffed grin.
“Is there no one else in Camelot with the spine to step up?!” the knight bellowed, sweeping his arms wide.
“Or do I claim the open seat without taking another scratch?!”
A heavy iron boot slammed hard into the dirt ten feet directly in front of him, kicking up a bright cloud of loose sand, dust, and wood chips.
The entire arena fell dead silent.
Mordred stood squarely in the center of the ring, her horned helmet tilted back slightly as she rested her left hand casually against her hip.
The heavy red-and-white sword remained in its scabbard for now, its white grip gleaming under the bright afternoon sun.
She gave the quiet stands a quick, energetic wave.
The gray knight blinked, his arrogant smile quickly souring into a heavy sneer as he looked over her towering silhouette.
“What is this?” the knight spat, raising his broadsword.
“Some masked brute from the border hills?
State your name, challenger!
I don’t waste my steel on nameless trash!”
Mordred let out a low, breathy laugh that echoed inside her helmet like grinding river stones.
‘Trash?’ she thought, her fingers dropping to her hilt with an easy, fluid motion.
‘Oh, big mistake, pal.’
“You can worry about my name after you learn how to balance on that left heel,” Mordred called out, offering him a playful, conspiratorial wink from behind her eye-slits.
Her voice was bright, teasing, and rang clearly across the quiet, listening stands.
“Arrogant fool!” the knight roared, lunging forward across the sand with a heavy two-handed overhead strike aimed straight for her left shoulder.
Mordred stepped straight inside his reach before his blade could even begin its descent.
A bright flash of red lightning snapped through the air with a thunderous crack.
In a single, effortless blur, Mordred cleared her scabbard and brought the flat of her heavy broadsword up beneath his crossguard with terrifying speed.
The knight’s steel sword flew thirty feet straight up into the air, spinning uselessly before plunging point-first into the dirt near the boundary wall.
Before the man could even register his empty, tingling hands, a sharp, cold edge rested firmly against the skin right beneath his chin, forcing his head back.
Deep crimson sparks flickered softly along her blade, humming against his neck.
The knight froze solid, his knees trembling as cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
“Now…
‘trash’ is a little harsh for a sunny afternoon, don’t you think?” Mordred murmured, leaning forward until her faceplate was inches from his pale nose.
Her tone was easy, cheerful, and full of mischievous amusement.
“Try ‘unexpected guest.’ It flows a lot better.”
The knight swallowed hard, his gloved hands flying up into the air in immediate, frantic surrender.
“I…
I yield!
I yield!”
He turned on his heel and sprinted toward the side exit, tripping over his own cloak in his desperation to reach the gates.
Mordred watched him scramble away, then lowered her heavy sword, resting the tip lightly in the sand.
She reached up with both gauntlets, pounding her fist against the top of her helmet in sheer annoyance.
The metal chimed dully against her skull.
“Ow!
Dammit!” she hissed softly under her breath, rubbing her forehead against the tight inner leather padding.
‘This stupid iron bucket…
first it freaks out Galahad, now it makes me look like some terrifying executioner.’
She shook her head, turned her horned visor toward the surrounding stands, and swept her red-and-white blade out in a broad, welcoming arc.
A wide, cocky grin spread across her face behind the dark eye-slits.
“Alright!” Mordred shouted, her voice echoing joyfully off the high stone walls of Camelot.
“Who’s next?!
Don’t all jump at once!”