“Barring any unforeseen accidents, that is the knight who will claim the honor of joining the Round Table,” Lancelot said, leaning his broad forearms comfortably over the draped wooden railing of the high balcony.
He watched the dust ring below with a quiet, appreciative tilt of his head, his fingers resting casually over his sword pommel.
“He has handled over thirty challengers since noon.
His footwork is surprisingly light, and his blade work is remarkably clean.”
King Arthur kept her eyes fixed on the sand below, watching the heavy red-and-white broadsword trace light, sweeping arcs through the warm air.
“Where is his limit?
Go down and test him yourself.”
“My pleasure, my King,” Lancelot replied, offering a warm, easy smile.
He turned smoothly on his heel and bounded down the wooden steps leading toward the arena floor, his violet-tinted armor clanking with a steady, relaxed rhythm.
Arthur remained where she stood, following Lancelot’s descent with the same composed attention she had given every bout since the trials began.
Her fingers rested lightly against the carved wooden rail, unmoving, while the murmur of the crowd drifted up from below.
A faint smile touched the corner of her mouth as Lancelot reached the bottom of the staircase without looking back.
“Do not concern yourself with victory,” she said quietly, knowing he would hear her over the noise below.
“Learn who stands before us.” Lancelot inclined his head without breaking stride, acknowledging the instruction before disappearing through the archway leading onto the arena floor.
Down in the churning sand, Mordred rested her left hand casually on her hip, swung her heavy red-and-white broadsword in a lazy, wide circle, and let out a boisterous laugh that echoed inside her heavy iron helmet like a struck bell.
Bright dust and pine chips flew off the tip of her blade, scattering across the boots of the crowd.
“Is there no one else who wishes to test their steel today?!” she called out toward the packed wooden stands, her voice bright, playful, and completely open.
“Step forward!
I am more than happy to take two at once if any of you require the encouragement!”
The three remaining challengers huddled near the timber barrier, staring at the horned iron figure standing in the center of the ring.
One of them blinked, dropped his heavy wooden shield right onto his own toes with a dull thud, and let out a sheepish, high-pitched squeak before scrambling backward straight out the side gate.
‘Well…
I certainly didn’t mean to terrify the poor guy,’ Mordred thought, rolling her shoulders to loosen her neck joints inside her tight leather collar.
‘I was literally just asking for a second partner.
Did he really drop his shield on his own toes?’ She shook her head inside the heavy iron dome as the man squeezed through the wooden gates.
She took a long, casual step toward the barrier, raising her gauntleted hand to offer the remaining guards an encouraging wave, but a sharp, rhythmic metallic footstep echoed from the arched entrance of the stone wall.
A broad-shouldered knight in polished, violet-tinted plate armor stepped out onto the churned sand.
The high afternoon sun glinted off his smooth pauldrons and the deep blue silk sash draped across his chest.
Mordred stopped in her tracks, resting her broadsword tip lightly in the sand and tilting her heavy horned visor toward him with a wide, amused grin hiding behind the steel plate.
“Well, look at you,” she called out through her faceplate, her voice brimming with genuine delight.
“You actually look as though you know how to handle your steel.
Please tell me you intend to give me a proper contest.
The last gentleman seemed eager to be anywhere else.”
Lancelot chuckled softly, unsheathing his broadsword in a smooth, unhurried motion that brought the tip level with her chest.
“I shall do my best not to disappoint you.”
Lancelot settled into a relaxed guard, letting the point of his sword drift a fraction lower as he watched the broad stance behind the horned helmet.
The stranger carried the weight of the oversized blade with surprising ease, and there wasn’t the slightest trace of nervous stiffness that usually betrayed challengers facing a knight of the Round Table.
His smile lingered, though his blue eyes sharpened with quiet curiosity as he waited for the first movement.
Mordred stepped forward, bringing her broadsword up in a smooth, two-handed arc meant to test his guard.
CLANG!
Lancelot brought the flat of his blade up to intercept her strike.
The heavy impact echoed off the wooden barriers, but Lancelot didn’t yield an inch.
He absorbed the full momentum of her blow with an easy shoulder turn, offering her a slight, polite smile as their blades locked together.
‘Okay, wow,’ Mordred thought, her eyes widening behind her visor slits as the heavy counter-pressure vibrated all the way up her forearms.
‘He absorbed that hit without moving his heels an inch.
That felt like swinging a steel pipe into a concrete wall.
The man is built like a tank and he’s not even sweating.’
“Now this is a fight!” Mordred laughed out loud, rolling her hips back to break the blade lock and stepping around his guard with a nimble, dancing pivot.
“You’re actually going to make me earn this!
Let us see how you fare against something a bit livelier!”
Near the front of the packed railing, Galahad leaned forward until both hands rested against the timber barrier.
His eyes followed every exchange without blinking, the easy smile he usually carried slowly giving way to open admiration as sparks scattered across the sand.
“Sir Lancelot hasn’t needed to give ground all afternoon,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“This knight keeps drawing another answer out of him.”
Mordred adjusted her grip on the white leather handle, a sharp grin spreading under her visor.
‘Alright, let’s turn up the heat a little,’ she thought, letting her mana flood straight into the carved runes along the crossguard.
CRACK!
Bright crimson lightning snapped from the silver steel, wrapping around her armor in crackling, blood-red arcs.
The loose sand swirled around her boots as Mordred pushed forward, exchanging a fast, rhythmic flurry of strikes that sent showers of red sparks flying into the barricades, drawing gasped shouts from the crowd.
Up on the royal balcony, a young man with delicate, almost feminine features and long golden hair stepped up beside King Arthur, his eyes fixed on the red sparks flying off the sand.
“To hold Sir Lancelot in a rhythm like this is remarkable,” he said softly.
Gawain rested both hands loosely on the balcony rail as the red flashes reflected across his polished vambraces.
His thoughtful expression never left the arena below.
“Strength alone doesn’t explain it,” he continued in the same calm tone.
“Sir Lancelot has already adjusted his footing three times.
Whoever stands below understands pressure remarkably well.”
“Stop your blades, brave warriors!”
The King’s voice wasn’t raised, yet it cut smoothly over the crackle of the crimson thunder and the roars of the crowd.
Lancelot immediately stepped back, sheathing his sword with a clean click and bowing his head toward the balcony.
Mordred pulled her blade back, the red lightning coiling around her hilt before dimming into a quiet, warm hum.
The thousands of spectators in the stands fell dead quiet.
Every head turned toward the high balcony.
King Arthur walked down the wooden staircase with measured, even steps.
Her golden crown gleamed in the sunlight as she crossed the sandy arena floor and stopped five paces in front of Mordred’s horned iron helmet.
“I recognize your valor,” Arthur said, her clear blue eyes staring straight into the narrow eye-slits of the faceplate.
“Your skill is grand enough to stand beside Sir Lancelot.
Tell me your name.”
Arthur held the knight’s gaze without urging an immediate reply.
The battered armor carried fresh scratches across the forearms and shoulders, while dried mud still clung around the greaves despite the afternoon heat.
Whoever stood beneath the horned helm had ridden hard to reach Camelot and entered the lists without asking for rest.
Arthur quietly committed each detail to memory before waiting for the answer.
Mordred looked into those calm, steady eyes.
She lowered her heavy sword, dropped her right knee into the loose sand, and planted her left fist respectfully against the ground, bowing her head just enough for the heavy iron horns to tilt forward.
“Mordred, Your Grace,” she answered, her tone soft, clear, and full of warm respect despite the muffling iron dome.
“I am honored to answer your call.”
In that exact split second, as the name left her mouth, Mordred saw the King’s pupils shrink slightly.
A faint, razor-thin shadow of guarded caution flashed through Arthur’s eyes before her expression smoothed back into royal composure.
‘Annnnd there it is,’ Mordred thought, holding her posture steady while keeping her eyes fixed on the sand.
‘The pupil shrink.
She definitely knows who my mother is.
Right now she’s calculating whether I’m a Trojan horse or just a weird kid in horned armor.
Keep it cool, don’t look suspicious.’
Mordred softened her posture, offering a quiet, disarming tilt of her head to show she posed no threat.
Arthur drew Excalibur from its scabbard.
The golden blade shone softly in the sunlight as she stepped forward and rested the flat of the tip gently on Mordred’s left iron shoulder plate, then tapped it against her right.
“Then from this day forth, Mordred shall hold the final seat of the Round Table,” Arthur proclaimed, her voice carrying across the quiet square.
“You are now one of us.”
Lancelot brought his fist lightly against the center of his breastplate in silent acknowledgment of the King’s judgment.
Galahad’s face brightened into an unguarded smile, his shoulders relaxing as though he had personally received welcome news, while Gawain inclined his head with quiet approval before letting his attention return to the newest knight standing in the sand.
Mordred looked up into the King’s calm face as Arthur sheathed her golden sword.
‘She’s keeping her guard up, which is totally fair for a monarch,’ Mordred thought, brushing the sand from her knee as she stood up.
‘Yet she still offered the seat.
She wants to see who I am.
Fair enough—I can work with that.’
“Knight Mordred,” a voice called out from behind the King.
A knight with bright yellow hair, small squinting eyes, and an awkward, long-nosed face stepped forward, resting a hand on his hip while pointing a finger at her horned helm.
“Are you not going to remove that ridiculous bucket?” Dagonet asked, his nasal voice echoing across the quiet ring.
“Let everyone see what you look like.
Or are you hiding something under there, hmm?”
Before Mordred could offer an easy reply, Galahad pushed his way through the circle of knights, his expression full of earnest indignation.
“Must you turn every noble occasion into an inspection, Dagonet?!” Galahad said, stepping right between Dagonet and Mordred.
“The knight has just fought thirty bouts in the heat!
Show some courtesy!”
Dagonet turned bright red.
Dagonet rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck before lowering his hand to his belt, the confidence that had carried him forward draining away under the quiet attention of the other knights.
“I only meant that everyone would wish to see the face of the warrior who bested half the tournament,” he muttered, sounding more embarrassed than argumentative as his eyes settled anywhere except the horned helmet.
He cut himself off, his eyes darting to Lancelot, who had stepped up beside Mordred with a faint, amused raise of an eyebrow.
Dagonet swallowed hard, took a small step back, and quieted down.
‘Galahad has been my legal defense for all of ten minutes and he’s already throwing hands for me,’ Mordred thought, a grin spreading behind her visor.
‘And Lancelot doesn’t even need to open his mouth—he just raises an eyebrow and Dagonet folds like a lawn chair.
I love these guys.’
Mordred cleared her throat, letting out a soft, conspiratorial chuckle inside her helmet before addressing the King.
“In truth, Your Grace, I met with a rather severe misfortune during my youth,” Mordred said, her tone warm, light, and full of self-deprecating good humor.
“My features aren’t quite as handsome as Sir Galahad’s.
I figure keeping the helmet on spares everyone from losing their appetite before the feast.”
The surrounding knights let out a sudden, unexpected ripple of genuine laughter, and even Arthur offered a small, understanding nod, her eyes softening.
“A knight’s worth is found in their actions, not their countenance,” Arthur said smoothly.
Galahad nodded at once, the King’s words drawing an unmistakable look of satisfaction across his face.
He glanced toward the surrounding knights, meeting several amused smiles before returning his attention to Mordred.
Whatever curiosity lingered about the helmet seemed to lose its importance the moment Arthur spoke.
“Tonight, a feast will be held to celebrate your induction.
Go clear the sand from your armor and prepare yourself.
Galahad, since you possess such spirited concern for our new companion, show Mordred around the grounds.”
“By your command, my King,” Galahad said, bowing deeply.
Arthur regarded Galahad for a quiet moment, then gave a slight nod that carried both trust and expectation.
“See that our newest companion wants for nothing,” she said evenly.
“A long road deserves a proper welcome, and Camelot should always offer one.”
“My sincere thanks, Your Grace,” Mordred added, giving a respectful, energetic nod that made her horned helmet clank against her collar.
Lancelot remained near the edge of the arena until the King’s retinue disappeared through the archway.
He glanced once toward Galahad, catching the younger knight’s eager expression, and allowed himself the faintest smile before turning back toward the scattered practice weapons still lying across the sand.
“The trials have given us an interesting day after all,” he said quietly.
Galahad’s eyes never left Mordred as he answered with an easy nod.
“I believe they’ve given us a remarkable one.”
She stood quietly in the ring, watching King Arthur’s red cloak sweep behind her as the monarch turned and walked back toward the keep with her personal guard.
‘Alright.
Step one complete,’ she thought, resting her hand lightly on her sword pommel.
‘Got the seat, didn’t trigger a civil war, and nobody drew steel on me.
Time to make sure no one ever regrets bringing me in.’
She turned toward Galahad, stepping up beside him and offering a broad, friendly gesture with her gauntlet.
“Well, my good knight,” Mordred said, her voice rich with easy, cheerful warmth behind the iron plate.
“Lead the way.
I hear Camelot keeps the finest kitchens in the realm, and I believe we have well and truly earned our dinner.”