Galahad stared.
He did not blink, nor did he touch the lukewarm mug of cider resting between his hands.
His eyes remained fixed on the mountain of empty wooden bowls and clay platters balanced on the rough oak table in front of them.
Mordred scraped the wooden spoon against the bottom of her ninth bowl of mutton stew, lifted her visor just high enough to clear her chin, and poured the remaining broth straight down her throat.
‘Food is the ultimate enemy,’ she thought, setting the bowl down onto the stack with a heavy thud.
‘And an enemy must be eliminated completely.
I might not get the crown, but there is zero doubt I inherited the royal stomach.’
She reached for a tenth bowl, but a thin, trembling hand snatched the platter away before her gauntlet could close around it.
The tavern keeper, a tall man with hollow cheeks and damp sweat shining across his forehead, backed away three paces, holding the stew bowl against his chest like a shield.
His eyes darted between the dark visor of her iron helm and the wide circle of empty tables surrounding them.
Every other patron in the room had squeezed into the far corner, whispering behind raised hands.
“That…
that is the last of the kettle, my lord,” the tavern keeper stammered, his voice rising.
“We have nothing left in the kitchen.”
Galahad let out a long sigh, slumping forward until his forehead tapped the oak table.
He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a handful of silver coins, and dropped them into the tavern keeper’s palm.
“We are leaving,” Galahad said softly, taking Mordred by her steel shoulder guard and pulling her up from the bench.
“Come along.”
“Hey, hold on!” Mordred offered the tavern keeper a quick, conspiratorial wink beneath her helm as she was tugged toward the door.
“I was still chewing!
The food in the capital is actually incredible!
Do you have any idea how many years I spent eating bland, boiled garbage in the backcountry?
It tasted like soggy cardboard!”
“You have been eating continuously for two hours!” Galahad rubbed his face with both hands, staring at his lighter coin purse with genuine despair.
“We have a formal banquet at the keep in less than an hour!
How can you possibly fit anything else inside that harness?
Show some mercy to my silver!
I paid for every bite!”
Mordred let out a light laugh, patting Galahad’s shoulder plate with an iron-clad palm.
‘He really did just spend his entire monthly allowance feeding me.
I’ve got to give the kid a break.’
“Fine, fine,” Mordred said, flashing him a warm, crooked smile from behind her raised visor.
“Relax.
I’ll make up for it at the royal feast.
Once the free food starts flowing, I won’t spend another copper of yours.”
Fifty minutes later, Mordred stood in the grand hall of the keep, staring down at the long trestle table set before the high dais.
“The harvest wagons from the western valleys arrived before noon,” Rowena said, setting her goblet aside as she looked toward Arthur.
“The road wardens report no trouble beyond the old river crossing.
If the weather holds another week, the grain stores should be more than sufficient for winter.”
Arthur inclined her head.
“You have my thanks, Princess Rowena.
Your father’s people have managed the route well.”
“The merchants deserve most of the credit,” Rowena answered with a faint, knowing tilt of her head.
“They have become rather fond of arriving with full wagons instead of explaining why they lost them.”
The silver platters were immaculate.
The crystal goblets gleamed under the soft light of the iron chandeliers.
But on her plate sat three cold, boiled carrots, a handful of bitter green leaves, and a single, unseasoned turnip.
Mordred poked the tip of her index finger into the center carrot.
It squished softly under her weight, releasing a tiny bead of lukewarm water.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Mordred thought, a light chuckle dying in her throat as she nudged the turnip.
Where are the turkey legs?
Where’s the gravy?
This isn’t a royal feast, this is a very polite rabbit cage.’
She leaned toward Galahad, who sat beside her staring up at the stone ceiling with an intensely focused, completely blank expression.
“Galahad,” Mordred whispered, her voice dripping with amused disbelief as she poked the carrot again.
“Tell me this is the appetizer.
Tell me the real food is currently being carried up the stairs.”
Galahad offered a strained chuckle, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the rafters above.
“This is…
indeed the feast.”
“This is lawn clippings!” Mordred murmured, offering a helpless, cheerful grin that made Galahad’s lips twitch despite his terror.
“Where’s the meat?!”
“Please, lower your voice,” Galahad pleaded softly, leaning in close.
“Sir Gawain believes that for a knight, quantity of fuel is far more important than quality or taste.
He insists that carrots provide everything a warrior needs for battle.
Furthermore, Camelot’s stores must be managed carefully, and the King insists on setting an example by eating the exact same rations as the common foot soldiers.
Look.”
Mordred looked toward the head of the table.
King Arthur sat straight-backed in her carved stone chair, calmly cutting a boiled carrot into four precise quarters with a small silver knife before placing one piece into her mouth without a single flicker of emotion.
Seated a short distance below the King’s place, a young woman in a deep blue gown quietly folded her hands before her untouched plate.
Her dark hair was gathered neatly behind her shoulders with a narrow silver clasp, and although several knights nearby spoke among themselves, she listened more than she talked, her gray eyes drifting from face to face with calm attention.
When one of the younger pages accidentally jostled her goblet while reaching across the table, she steadied it before it could tip, thanked him with a small, reassuring smile, and returned her attention to the conversation at the high table as though nothing unusual had happened.
Mordred’s eyes lingered on the narrow leather holster fastened beneath the woman’s left arm.
The polished length of carved wood resting inside it was too slim for a dagger and too short for any scepter she had ever seen.
‘A wand?’ she thought, genuine fascination sparking behind her visor.
‘That’s an unusual way to carry a focus.
Distinctly un-magus-like.’
‘She looks like she actually enjoys listening to people,’ Mordred added internally, appreciating the woman’s easy posture.
‘Not rigid at all.’
Galahad noticed where her visor had settled and smiled softly.
“Ah.
You are looking at Lady Rowena.”
“She carries a wand,” Mordred whispered back, leaning in with genuine curiosity.
“She does.”
“She isn’t a court magus?”
Galahad shook his head gently.
“No.
Lady Rowena calls herself a witch.”
‘A witch?’ Mordred thought, a delighted smile touching her lips in the dark of her helmet.
‘Now that’s interesting.’
She turned her gaze back to the head table, watching Arthur methodically chew another carrot slice.
‘And the King is actually eating this with a straight face.
She’s got an entire kingdom at her beck and call, and she chooses rabbit food out of sheer principle.
You almost have to respect it.’
She shook her head, unable to hide her grin.
“So this whole tragedy is just because one lord has a very peculiar obsession with root vegetables?” Mordred asked softly, though her voice carried across the quiet table.
“How does a knight who thinks carrots are a substitute for actual meat become the King’s right hand?
Lancelot would never subject poor people to boiled roots.”
The clatter of wooden spoons stopped.
Across the long tables, several senior Round Table knights froze with their goblets halfway to their lips.
They looked at Mordred, then shifted their gazes toward the high archway behind her, their expressions a mixture of shock, respect, and quiet pity.
Galahad went completely pale, his jaw dropping open.
Mordred caught movement farther up the table.
The young woman in blue had stopped with her cup halfway to her lips.
She looked first toward Sir Gawain, then toward Mordred’s horned helmet, her expression thoughtful rather than offended, as though she were less interested in the remark itself than in discovering what sort of person would casually tease one of Camelot’s senior knights on her very first night at court.
“I could not help but overhear your evaluation,” a deep voice echoed from the doorway.
Mordred turned her horned helmet toward the entrance.
A tall, broad-shouldered knight with long golden hair and polished steel armor stepped into the light of the torches.
His jaw was set in a firm line, and his blue eyes burned with immediate indignation.
‘Oh, lovely,’ Mordred thought, her grin widening behind her visor as she took in his towering frame.
‘He’s built like a silver-plated gorilla, and he takes his vegetables very, very seriously.’
“Sir Gawain,” Galahad stammered, rising quickly from his bench and offering a stiff bow.
“We were merely…
discussing the banquet arrangements.”
“I heard precisely what was said,” Gawain said, stopping three paces away.
His chestplate heaved as he leveled a stern glare at Mordred’s iron helmet.
“You spit upon the noble carrot, the supreme foundation of a knight’s vigor.
And you mock my standing relative to Sir Lancelot.
I have heard of your performance in the arena today from Lancelot himself.
He spoke highly of your martial skill, yet your manners leave much to be desired.”
Mordred raised both gauntleted hands in an easy, disarming gesture, tilting her horned helm with an amused shrug.
“No offense intended, Sir Gawain.
Truly.
I just prefer my dinner to have had a heartbeat at some point today.”
“That excuse will not suffice,” Gawain declared, reaching down to unbuckle the heavy leather gauntlet from his left wrist.
He slapped it firmly against the iron breastplate of Mordred’s armor with a crisp metallic clack.
“If you possess the courage to back your tongue, meet me in the courtyard below.
A brief duel of honor.
If I win, you will consume every carrot upon that platter and issue a formal retraction.”
Rowena leaned slightly toward the King, keeping her voice low enough that only those nearest the dais could hear.
“Should someone separate them?”
Arthur watched the two knights without looking away.
“No.”
Rowena studied Mordred for another quiet moment before giving a small, appreciative nod.
“Then I shall trust your judgment.”
Mordred looked down at the leather glove resting near her belt, then glanced up toward the high arched windows.
Night had fully fallen over Camelot.
Silver moonlight poured across the courtyard stones outside.
‘Wait a second,’ Mordred thought, an infectious, mischievous spark lighting up her eyes behind the visor.
‘He picked tonight?
Under the stars?
His legendary sun-blessing doesn’t work in the dark!
Right now, he’s just an impossibly tall guy with a sword and a passion for root vegetables.’
She reached down, scooped up the gauntlet with effortless grace, and tossed it right back into his chest.
Gawain caught it smoothly in his right hand, his brow furrowing slightly at her complete lack of hesitation.
“A fair proposal, Sir Gawain,” Mordred said, her spoken voice warm, polite, and brimming with lighthearted confidence.
She gave him a gentle, sweeping bow.
“Let us step into the courtyard.
I’d be delighted to settle our little culinary dispute under the stars.”