By the time she stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the training yard — where Arthur stood watching the squires drill, arms crossed in imperious satisfaction — her breath was shaking.
Because down below, among the armor and banners, she saw it again.
Lancelot.
Crimson tied around the base of his lance.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying not to fall apart right there before the king.
This wasn’t just a whisper of rebellion.
It waseverywhere.
And she was no longer alone.
Arthur caught her eye with a scowl. Leaving the knights to their preparations, he made his way to the balcony.
“Quite nice of you to join me, Guinevere.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the wooden post. “I called upon you hours ago.”
“Rome ne s'est pas faite en un jour,” she waved her hand at him, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
The king took an indignant step forward. “You spend too much time with that arrogant Frenchman.” He pinched her chin, brows knitted tight. “This isn’t Rome, wife. You come when I call.”
She reached up and pried her face from his hand. “What, pray tell, do you require from me, my lord?”
Arthur smiled without warmth. “You’ll stand with me when the tournament begins. It is, after all, unbecoming of a queen to find herselfanywhere else during such an event.”
“Unbecoming?” she asked, brows arching.
“Of course. And a queen so beloved deserves a champion.” He leaned in, voice a low hum by her ear. “It would be a shame if none stepped forward. Terribly humiliating. And fatal, I fear.”
She froze.
He stepped back, eyes glittering.
“You see, wife, there’s... a certain poetry in it. If no knight claims you — no sword lifted, no vow made — then clearly, the court must believe you unworthy.” His tone softened into something almost pitying. “And an unworthy queen? That’s treason. You know the law.”
He turned, letting his cape swing as he made his way back toward the stairs. “Let us hope someone fights for you, Guinevere,” he called over his shoulder, quieter now. “Though I suppose if your beloved knight does… well. Accidents happen in tournaments.”
He laughed as he walked down the steps. “Good luck, Guinevere. However will you spin your way out of this one?”
Arthur’s voice echoed around her, in the walls, in the air, in her bones. She could hear her heart in her ears as she braced against the balcony, dizziness shaking her.
Fleetingly, she caught the eyes of her knight, a look of confusion and worry etched across his features, but her vision blurred and she had to lower herself to a seat before she lost consciousness.
In a matter of moments, she heard the clatter of boots bounding up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Though her visitor shouted her name, she heard only muffled sounds. She was still seeing double.
Her lungs couldn’t drag in enough air. She felt herself clawing ather own throat, trying to open a path to breathe again.
Everything was stifled.
Everything was loud.
Hands framed her face, and the voice, the person in front of her, continued to call her name, thumbs brushing against her cheekbones.
Her breathing was ragged, tears in her eyes — on her cheeks.
Perhaps everywhere.
