Page 51 of The Sword & the Stone

"Long live the queen," she hissed, her voice dripping with hatred.

And she let go.

The sound of my own screams tore me from sleep. As my eyes flew open, I felt as if my body slammed into the ground,knocking the air out of me. Shapes moved around me in the pre-dawn light. The sound of moss crunched under foot.

Galahad was by my side instantly, his strong arms wrapped around me and pulled me close against his chest. I felt the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his skin through his shirt. The scent of him—leather and wood smoke—wrapped around me, bringing me back to the present.

“Arthur,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and worry. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I shook my head, burying my face against his shoulder, trying to steady my breathing. The other knights formed a protective circle around us, swords drawn, eyes scanning the dark trees for any sign of danger.

“It was a dream,” I finally said, my voice shaky. “But it felt so real. I could feel the wind, smell the sea…”

I shuddered, remembering Mordred’s cold, green eyes. Galahad tightened his hold on me, one hand gently stroking my hair as if to calm my fears.

Percival stalked over, noticing my trembling. He wrapped a dark cloak around both of us, blocking out the chill of the night. “Arthur, why were you screaming? What did you see?”

I lifted my head, searching for Merlin’s familiar blue gaze. In the moonlight, his hair looked almost black, his skin pale and his stance tense. Worry was etched on his face, the way his fists clenched gave him away even more.

An understanding passed between us. Merlin knew me too well, could read my thoughts like an open book. Before I could explain, he spoke up, his voice low and serious. “She saw Mordred.”

Galahad’s grip tightened, as if he could protect me from even the mention of her name.

I swallowed hard. “It was more than just a dream. It felt like a vision. Mordred was on a cliff, talking about her past, about howshe tried to prove herself to Uther.” Merlin’s gaze dropped, his face clouded with guilt.

“She’s alone and feels betrayed by our father…by Uther,” I said, struggling with the weight of the wordfather. It still felt strange.

Lancelot scoffed, quickly putting out the flames that had sparked in his hands. I glanced at Gawain, relieved to see the icy tendrils on his arms receding.

“Don’t believe everything Mordred says, Arthur. She’ll do whatever it takes to get her hands on Excalibur,” Lancelot warned.

I slowly pulled away from Galahad's warm embrace, my legs still quaking as I steadied myself on the mossy ground beneath me. The cloak that Percival had draped over us slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like a dark shadow.

Pacing back and forth, my mind churned with flashes of my vision. No, it was more than that. It felt too real, too visceral to be a dream. The briny scent of the sea clung to my senses, and the haunting cries of crows still rang in my ears.

As I walked, I spotted Excalibur resting in its sheath beside my bedroll. My hand moved almost of its own volition, wrapping around the hilt, the soft leather warm against my palm as if the sword were breathing.

I unsheathed the blade, the steel rasping against the ornate scabbard. The moment I raised it, a soft golden light emanated from the sword, growing brighter until it rivaled the pale glow of the moon. The illumination danced along the elegant fuller, tracing the intricate scrollwork etched into the metal.

Tristan's voice broke through my reverie, his words low and breathy with a mixture of awe and something that sounded like uncertainty. "Arthur, your eyes..."

I tore my gaze away from Excalibur, meeting Tristan's stare. His face had gone ashen, and he approached slowly, his eyes roving over my face.

"What is it?" I asked.

“They're glowing. Just like the sword," he said as he reached me, placing a large palm on my cheek and cupping my face. Then, he turned his head to the side, asking over his shoulder, “What day is it?”

There was a pregnant silence, and I looked over Tristan’s shoulder to see the other knights walking this way slowly.

Percival inhaled deeply, his dark eyes reflecting the starry expanse above. "It's the Dawn of the Ancients," he said, his voice reverent and tinged with a hint of excitement.

I furrowed my brow, glancing between Percy and Tristan. "The Dawn of the Ancients? What does that mean?"

Tristan turned back to me, his hand still cupping my cheek, his thumb gently brushing over my skin. "It's a sacred holiday celebrated by the fae, a time when we honor the old gods we’re descended from. According to legend, on this day, the veil between our world and the realm of the gods grows thin. Magic surges through the land, and those who possess the gift can tap into its raw power."

I tightened my grip on Excalibur's hilt. The golden glow emanating from the blade seemed to pulse in response, as if the sword itself was attuned to the ancient magic in the air.

"The fae believe that on the Dawn of the Ancients, the old gods walk among us," Gawain added as the men began to circle the fire pit. "Then comes the Night of The Ancients, when all of Avalon sets aside their differences and revels in the surge of magic.”

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