“The lower armory lies just through this archway,” Galahad said, keeping an easy pace as he led the way from the churning arena sand into the shaded stone corridors of the outer wall.
His silver armor and blue sash caught the fading afternoon sun.
“Master Cob can mend any deep scoring on your greaves before evening, if you wish.
His smiths work under the Crown’s commission.”
Mordred walked beside him, her iron boots striking flagstones with a heavy thud.
Heat built up inside her horned helmet, sweat trickling down her neck beneath her leather collar, but her stride remained steady.
“My thanks, Sir Galahad,” she replied through her faceplate, her tone polite and carefully modulated.
“The steel held up well enough today, though I shall take advantage of his forge on the morrow.”
‘Good lord, it’s a sauna inside this bucket,’ she thought, rolling her shoulders to shift the weight of her pauldrons.
‘And the architecture is insane.
Narrow arrow slits, forty-foot stone arches, perfect choke points at every turn.
If someone tried to storm this gatehouse, they’d funnel straight into a murder hole within ten paces.
The logistical design alone is terrifying.’
Galahad turned down a sunlit colonnade over the training grounds.
Below, squires hauled wooden practice dummies into storage, while pages gathered scattered arrows from the turf.
“The King takes great interest in the training of the younger squires,” Galahad explained, pausing by the stone railing to watch the activity below.
He rested both hands on the warm rail, watching one young squire struggle to lift a practice dummy back onto its frame until another hurried over to help.
A quiet smile touched his face.
“Sir Lancelot always says a knight’s habits are built long before he ever wears a full harness,” he said, following the pair with his eyes until they disappeared beneath the gallery.
“The King expects us to teach more than swordplay.
He expects us to leave those under our care better than we found them.”
“A wise policy,” Mordred said, resting a gauntleted forearm on the stone ledge.
“Strength unguided by daily labor breeds stagnation.”
‘Seeing all this in person hits completely different than reading about it in a textbook or looking at a floor plan,’ Mordred thought, scanning the courtyard.
‘Everything here is functional.
Nothing is just for show.
King Arthur isn’t running a fairytale court; she’s managing a high-efficiency military fortress.’
Galahad led her through massive, oak-paneled double doors into the main keep.
The air here was cooler, carrying the dry scent of old beeswax, polished iron, and fresh rushes strewn across the floor.
They descended a broad spiral staircase, the steps worn smooth in the center by centuries of boots, until they reached a high chamber bathed in crimson light from stained glass.
In the center sat the Round Table.
It was immense.
The dark timber was carved from a single ring of solid oak, polished to a mirror sheen.
Small silver nameplates were embedded along its outer rim, each bearing the crest of a knight.
Galahad stopped a few paces away, his voice dropping.
“The center remains open so that no knight sits closer to the king than any other.
Here, all voices carry equal weight.”
Galahad let his gaze travel around the polished ring.
“Sir Gawain always arrives before everyone else,” he said with an easy smile.
“Sir Lancelot usually claims the same chair without ever seeming to think about it, and Sir Kay insists the kitchens serve smaller portions whenever Sir Gaheris sits beside him.
” A faint laugh escaped him before he looked back toward the empty seat waiting for its crest.
“Every place around this table carries its own little habits.”
Mordred stood still in the doorway.
She looked at the circular expanse of wood, tracing the line of silver plates until her eyes reached a newly carved marker near Lancelot’s seat.
It bore no crest yet, only a plain outline awaiting her mark.
‘There it is,’ she thought, a cold weight settling in her stomach.
‘The actual Round Table.
Sitting here means stepping directly onto the chessboard.
One wrong move, one lapse in posture, and the history books rewrite themselves.’
“It is a heavy honor,” Mordred said, her spoken voice reverent as she inclined her horned helm toward the table.
“To sit where so many noble blades gather.”
Galahad nodded.
“You have earned your place among us, Knight Mordred.
The King does not bestow such trust lightly.”
He paused beside the nearest chair, resting his fingertips lightly against its carved back before withdrawing them.
“His judgment has carried this kingdom through years that would have broken lesser rulers,” he continued.
“Some of us have served beside him longer than others, but none of us doubts that he weighs every decision with care.”
He turned, leading her toward the lower stairs.
“Tell me…
where did you hone such skills?
Your style is unlike any I have seen in the southern marches.”
“I was raised far to the north,” Mordred answered, her tone light as they stepped through the gatehouse toward the lower town.
“In an isolated estate among the crags.
My upbringing was quiet, strict, and focused entirely on martial discipline under the eyes of my tutors.”
Galahad nodded as they climbed the last few steps into the afternoon light.
“That explains why I could not place your style,” he said, adjusting the blue cloak over his shoulder.
“I wondered whether it belonged to one of the western marches, though it never quite resembled anything I saw during my travels.”
‘Quiet and strict is an absolute understatement,’ she added internally, looking toward the distant mountains.
‘Morgan’s citadel was a fortress of polished marble, private chambers, and silent servants who moved like ghosts.
She gave me the finest armor, elite instruction, and a mountain of resources, but the whole place felt like an ice-cold staging ground for a war I never asked to start.
Compared to this living kingdom, that castle was just a golden cage.’
The afternoon sun hung low over the slate rooftops of Camelot, casting long shadows across the lower streets as they entered the market district.
Every step Mordred took rattled her pauldrons, and the massive, curved horns of her helm occasionally brushed the low wooden signboards of passing merchants.
“So,” Mordred said, her voice echoing inside her visor as she turned to inspect a bakery window.
“The great, glorious capital of the realm.
Tell me, Galahad—does the royal treasury provide extra rations for new recruits, or am I expected to forage in the royal gardens like a confused goat?”
Galahad offered a soft, amused smile, not breaking his stride.
“The royal kitchens provide ample provisions for all knights of the Round Table.
Though, given your performance in the arena today, I imagine ‘ample’ might need to be redefined.”
“You jest, but I am running on pure exhaustion and questionable judgment,” Mordred sighed, tapping her breastplate with a gauntleted finger.
“I haven’t had a proper meal since a sketchy roadside inn three days ago where the soup stared back at me.”
‘My metabolism is burning through fuel like an engine right now,’ she thought, her eye twitching behind her visor slits.
‘If I don’t get actual protein into my system immediately, I’m going to start chewing on my own leather straps.’
As they turned the corner into the merchant square, foot traffic parted abruptly.
Merchants carrying baskets of dried figs, weavers hauling bolts of linen, and children playing in the dirt stopped, staring wide-eyed at the horned silhouette lumbering through the square.
A stray dog barked once, tucked its tail, and bolted under a nearby porch.
Mordred paused, tilting her helmet toward a group of elderly women whispering behind embroidered shawls.
She raised a gauntlet and gave a friendly wave.
The women gasped and scuttled behind a fruit cart.
Galahad offered the startled women an apologetic smile as they hurried past, lifting a hand in a reassuring gesture before turning back to Mordred.
“Do not take it to heart,” he said gently while keeping pace.
“News travels quickly here, though first impressions usually travel faster.
By tomorrow they will be speaking about the tournament instead of the helmet.”
Mordred lowered her hand with a dry, amused huff. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“I am starting to think this helm does little for my standing among the local folk.”
‘So much for making a good first impression with the neighbors,’ she thought.
“It is…
certainly a striking design,” Galahad admitted, glancing up at the iron horns.
“Most knights prefer crests of lions or soaring eagles.
Yours possesses a somewhat more…
rustic intimidation.”
“Rustic?
This is simple, sound smithing,” Mordred retorted, stepping around a barrel of salted fish.
“A lion crest isn’t going to deflect a rusty broadsword when some bandit tries to cave your skull in.
Horns strike dread into an opponent’s heart—and give you a fine hook for a spare lantern.”
Galahad laughed, the sound carrying over the market bustle.
“I admit I have never considered mounting lanterns on a helm before,” he replied, shaking his head.
“If Sir Kay hears that argument, he may order the armorers to experiment with the idea simply to see whether it works.”
He led her past the stone walls of the inner bailey toward the lower artisan district, where the rich smell of roasting mutton drifted from a crowded tavern doorway.
“You may wish to avoid presenting that proposal to Sir Bedivere,” Galahad added as they crossed into the artisan quarter.
“He spends enough time persuading the armorers not to burden the younger knights with unnecessary weight.
I suspect he would look at those horns for a long time before deciding where to begin.”
Mordred stopped dead in her tracks.
Her nose twitched inside her helm.
The hum of conversation from inside the tavern, the clinking of wooden mugs, and the heavy aroma of sizzling fat hit her senses all at once.
Her stomach let out a low rumble that rattled her breastplate.
Mordred slowly turned her horned visor toward Galahad, her posture locking into rigid focus.
“Galahad.”
“Yes, Mordred?”
“Forget the grand tour.
Forget the royal stables.
Forget everything you thought you knew about time and space.” Mordred pointed an iron-clad finger straight at the tavern door.
“We are entering that building, or I shall commit treason right here in the middle of the street.”
Galahad blinked, staring at the tavern sign, then down at his belt pouch, where a modest stack of silver coins rested.
He looked back at Mordred’s imposing iron mask.
Slowly, a look of resigned dread settled over the young knight’s face.
He loosened the drawstring of his coin pouch with a quiet sigh, weighing it briefly in his hand before fastening it back onto his belt.
“Sir Gawain warned me never to accompany a victorious knight into the marketplace before supper,” he admitted with a rueful smile.
“At the time I thought he was exaggerating.
I begin to suspect he was speaking from experience.”
“Just…
just promise me you’ll leave enough for the banquet,” Galahad muttered, rubbing his temples.
“No promises,” Mordred declared cheerfully, already marching toward the door and nearly taking the lintel off with her horns.
Back inside the keep, Lancelot crossed paths with Gawain beneath the western gallery where servants hurried to prepare the evening feast.
Gawain slowed beside him, folding his hands behind his back as they looked out over the crowded city below.
“Our newest companion seems to possess enough energy for three knights,” he observed with quiet amusement.
Lancelot’s eyes lingered on the distant marketplace before he answered with an easy smile.
“Energy can be guided.
Character is far harder to teach, and I believe we have seen enough today to know which matters more.”
“Let’s see what these villagers are cooking.”