Because in high fantasy, armor always hits stone floors with maximum dramatic effect, the heavy iron breastplate landed on the woven rug with a dull, metallic thud.
The old druids used to claim that iron possessed a spiteful little spirit that delighted in waking sleeping households; judging by the noise, they were probably right.
Mordred let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, unbuckling the padded leather under-gambeson and letting it drop.
The cool air of the hearth-lit room hit her bare skin—along with the ugly, brutal truth of what Gawain’s solar flare had actually done.
Because naturally, surviving a direct hit from a living sunbeam leaves slightly more than a flesh wound.
It wasn’t just a bruise on her cheek.
A deep, dark plum discoloration spread like ink across her right collarbone, creeping down toward her sternum where the front plate had compressed under the kinetic wave.
Her left ribcage bore a nasty mottling of purple and crimson, and her split lip throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache.
Maeve’s emerald eyes darkened instantly, the firelight catching the sharp, predatory angle of her pupils.
She drew a slow breath through her nose, her expression tightening as she followed every bruise across Mordred’s shoulder and ribs.
Her free hand curled into a fist at her side until her knuckles whitened, and when she finally looked back up, the anger in her eyes had settled into something quieter and far more dangerous.
“He struck without restraint,” Maeve said, keeping her voice low as she reached into the stone bowl of glowing green salve.
“Anyone with sense would have seen the duel had already turned.
A healer spends years learning how easily the body breaks, and warriors still find new ways to prove it.”
Her breathing turned shallow, her fingers trembling against the rim of the ceramic dish.
“That absolute swine,” Maeve hissed, her voice vibrating with genuine, unhinged malice.
The air in the room grew heavy, the faint scent of ozone and crushed nightshade swirling around them as her druidic mana flared.
“I will rot his bones.
I will call the roots from the earth to drag him into the dark while he sleeps—”
She stepped closer, scooping up a warm palmful of the fragrant herbal paste, and pressed her hands gently against Mordred’s bruised sternum.
Then, Maeve froze.
Her fingers, mid-slather, smoothed over the curve of Mordred’s pale chest.
Her gaze drifted down from the terrifying purple bruise, tracing the delicate slope of soft, bare skin, and landed squarely on the full, perfectly shaped curve of Mordred’s bust.
Ancient druids liked to claim that righteous fury was the strongest force in all of creation.
They had clearly never accounted for a beautiful woman.
The murderous druid aura evaporated instantly, replaced by a glazed, intensely focused trance.
Priorities, as always, remained entirely clear.
“Though…” Maeve murmured softly, her fingers tracing a lingering, entirely unnecessary circle around the edge of Mordred’s breast under the guise of ‘applying medicine,’ “…the gods truly did spend extra time sculpting you, my Lord.
Even bruised, you are a masterpiece.”
Mordred stood there with her arms slightly raised, holding her breath while Maeve casually abandoned all medical urgency to admire the scenery.
‘Wait,’ Mordred thought, her eye twitching as her brain hit a wall.
‘Did she just completely forget about Gawain?!
She went from “I will rot his family lineage” to “wow, nice rack” in less than two seconds!
Maeve, hello?!
My ribs are literally purple!’
“Maeve,” Mordred said aloud, her spoken voice tight, measured, and carefully holding onto her royal dignity.
“The salve is for the discoloration, not an excuse for an art inspection.”
“I am merely ensuring the herbal magic penetrates the deeper tissue, my Lord,” Maeve replied smoothly, not moving her hand an inch, a dangerous, intoxicating little smirk playing on her lips.
“It requires…
thorough, hands-on attention.”
Maeve finally resumed spreading the salve where the bruise was darkest, though the amused curve of her mouth remained.
Her fingertips moved with practiced care despite the teasing in her voice, massaging the glowing paste deep into the skin until the warmth gathered beneath it, gradually easing the sharp ache lodged beneath the battered muscle.
“There,” Maeve murmured, wiping the residual ointment from her palms with a cloth and sounding almost satisfied with her own work.
“You may accuse me of distraction if you wish, but I refuse to leave half a treatment unfinished.”
Before Mordred could offer a witty counter, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy oak of the front door.
If there is one universal law in the universe, it is that private, intimate moments act as an irresistible beacon for unannounced guests.
‘Oh, fantastic timing,’ Mordred shrieked internally, her eyes widening in near panic.
‘I’m half-naked, covered in herbal magic, with a crazy redheaded druid groping my chest, and someone is knocking on the door late at night?!’
Unperturbed, Maeve seemed to melt away.
The warm firelight appeared to bend around her, her vibrant silhouette smearing like wet paint as shadow spilled upward from the floorboards to swallow her form.
Without a sound, the darkness folded over her broad shoulders and red hair, drawing her backward into the unlit recess behind the heavy oak wardrobe until only the faint, fading scent of crushed nightshade remained. Read this novel at novelping . com for the best experience.
Leaving Mordred to handle the social crisis alone, as any loyal handmaiden naturally would.
Mordred frantically pulled her dark tunic back over her head—silently praying the remaining residue wouldn’t stain the linen—and commanded Secret of Pedigree to lock back over her neck and shoulders.
Living iron flowed smoothly up her neck, forming the horned helmet and completely sealing her face away just as she unlatched the entryway.
Princess Rowena stood in the doorway, framed by the pale moonlight.
She held a thin leather ledger under one arm, her sharp, dark eyes sweeping over the fully armored knight standing in the dimly lit room.
“Good evening, Sir Mordred,” Rowena said, her voice calm, refined, and entirely unbothered by the late hour.
“I hope I am not disturbing your rest.”
Mordred rested a gauntleted hand against the wooden table, steadying her posture into a casual, lazy lean to hide her slight breathlessness.
“Not particularly, Lady Rowena,” Mordred replied, her spoken voice dropping into that smooth, charming register.
“Though I confess, late-night house calls are somewhat unexpected.”
Rowena allowed a quiet, knowing smile to touch her lips, stepping gracefully over the threshold.
She closed the heavy door behind herself with an easy motion and glanced once around the modest room.
Her eyes lingered on the bare hearth, the narrow cot, and the empty shelves before returning to Mordred’s helm without the slightest hint of surprise.
“Sir Galahad mentioned your quarters were prepared in haste,” she said evenly as she rested one hand on the leather ledger.
“I suspected nobody had thought beyond handing you a key.”
“His Majesty has granted you a seat at the Round Table,” Rowena said, pausing just long enough for the weight of the statement to settle.
“Yet no one appears to have explained how to live here.”
Arthur could organize the defense of an entire kingdom and unite twelve warring factions under one banner.
Explaining where a newly made knight collected his daily stipend, however, appeared to be someone else’s sacred duty.
Mordred tilted her horned helm to the side.
‘Okay, basic operational failure confirmed,’ Mordred thought, a dry smirk forming under her visor.
‘No orientation packet, no administrative guide.
Just a drafty room and a golden Oozaru firing solar beams at new hires.’
“A master of observation, Princess,” Mordred murmured aloud with a theatrical little nod.
“I take it the Crown does not provide an administrative guide?”
“Arthur manages armies,” Rowena explained evenly, placing the leather ledger on the edge of the wooden table.
“Sir Galahad grew up within these walls and assumes every knight understands the inner workings of the keep.
Consequently, newly elevated nobles frequently starve in their own quarters for three days before realizing they must register with the lower steward.”
She tapped the leather cover of the book.
“Your daily stipend.
Stable assignments.
The process for requesting blacksmith repairs to damaged plate.
Where your official correspondence arrives, and how patrol rotations are scheduled.
An unmanaged knight is an administrative disaster waiting to happen.”
Rowena folded her hands loosely before her, and the faint amusement returned to her eyes.
“You would be surprised how often valor creates paperwork,” she said.
“Sir Kay once misplaced three weeks of patrol reports because he tucked them inside a cookbook.
Sir Dagonet signed a requisition form with a tournament alias.
The records eventually recover, though I cannot say the same for my patience.”
Which raised a fascinating historical question: how many legendary heroes had died not in glorious battle, but because nobody bothered to tell them where to turn in their expense vouchers?
‘I officially adore this woman,’ Mordred thought, her modern soul crying tears of absolute gratitude.
‘Everyone else in this castle is obsessed with glory and chivalry, and Rowena is out here running basic HR operations.’
“You have my unyielding gratitude,” Mordred said aloud, bowing her iron head.
“I had assumed I was meant to forage for roots in the courtyard.”
Rowena let out a soft, amused breath, her dark eyes searching the metal slits of the helmet.
“You jest,” Rowena said, her tone shifting, growing quieter and far more observant.
“Yet earlier today, I watched you frighten an elderly cobbler in the lower ward…
only to quietly assist him into the shade once his cart had cleared.”
Mordred went completely still inside her casing.
“You thanked the sovereign sincerely,” Rowena continued, stepping a fraction closer.
And after Sir Gawain unleashed a Noble Phantasm against you in open daylight…
you did not demand blood or political satisfaction.
You struck him once for violating your sense of proper knightly conduct, and then you simply walked away.”
Rowena tilted her head, her gaze piercing right through the dark iron visor.
Rowena hadn’t come looking for secret magical conspiracies or dark bloodlines.
She had come because Mordred had committed the greatest offense imaginable among the high nobility: she had treated common folk like actual people.
“Most newly elevated nobles stop noticing servants within a day, Sir Mordred.
They hoard their status like dragon’s gold.
You behave as though you care very little for status, yet care remarkably for the people standing beneath it.”
Mordred held her breath, her heart giving a quick, mischievous flutter behind her armor plate.
‘She’s not looking for treason,’ Mordred realized, a dark, playful grin spreading across her hidden face.
‘She’s trying to figure out why the new guy doesn’t act like an arrogant feudal lord.
Oh, Rowena…
you’re way too sharp for your own good.’
“A knight is only as strong as the ground he stands upon, Princess,” Mordred replied aloud, her spoken voice falling into a razor-thin, charismatic cadence.
“Does it trouble you that I prefer my ground uncorrupted?”
Rowena studied her for a long, silent beat before her smile returned, carrying a genuine spark of respect.
“Trouble me?
No,” Rowena said softly.
“It makes you the most interesting person in Camelot.”
Rowena’s gaze softened for only a moment before settling back into its usual calm focus.
“Arthur notices more than people imagine,” she said quietly.
“He rarely comments before concluding, but she had already asked after you before I came here.
That alone is unusual.”
She adjusted the ledger on the table and turned back toward the entry, lifting the iron latch.
“Which brings me to my secondary purpose tonight.
Tomorrow afternoon, I require an escort into the lower city.
The grain ledgers do not inspect themselves, and the merchants become remarkably honest when a knight of the Round Table accompanies me.”
Mordred let out a light, quiet chuckle that vibrated pleasantly inside her iron helm.
‘An escort mission through the city with the smartest civilian in the kingdom?’ Mordred thought.
‘Sign me up.’
“It would be my absolute honor, Lady Rowena,” Mordred said aloud, offering her a low, flawless bow.
“I shall be ready at midday, and we will make the merchants weep.”
Rowena inclined her head in quiet approval, her fingers closing around the ledger once more as she pulled the heavy door inward.
“Then I shall call for you after the midday meal,” she said.
“Bring your sword if it makes the merchants feel cooperative, but I would much rather they remember your manners than your steel.”
The faint smile she wore lingered as she stepped back into the moonlit corridor, leaving the door standing open for a heartbeat before drawing it gently shut behind her.
The heavy latch clicked into place with absolute finality.
A second passed.
Then two.
From the dark, shadowed corner behind the wardrobe, the air rippled like disturbed water.
Maeve stepped out into the firelight, her arms crossed tight over her chest, her green eyes narrowed at the closed door with an unholy blend of irritation and admiration.
“Fascinating,” Maeve drawled, her tone dripping with dark, dry sarcasm.
“The bureaucrat has a crush.
Should I poison her tea, or do you intend to let her audit you into her bed?”
‘Oh, good,’ Mordred groaned internally, releasing her helmet to transform as the iron dissolved back into air.
‘The crazy druid is jealous of HR.
Welcome to Camelot.’