Table of ContentsEpisode 1 · 10 episodes availableIn this Season · The Once and Stolen CrownReading order
About this story
Camelot is burning the old world to ash. Once a princess of Oléron, Tryamour has watched human conquest reduce her homeland to ruin, leaving her family dead and her people scattered. Now a healer for the Resistance, she has little left but her hatred for Camelot and a willingness to do whatever it takes to see the kingdom fall. Even if it means walking willingly into the heart of it. Disguised as a servant within Castle Pendragon, Tryamour intends to poison the court and disappear before anyone discovers what she is. Instead, she crosses paths with Lanval, a peasant born knight whose loyalty to Camelot has earned him everything he once dreamed of, and whose growing doubts threaten to cost him all of it. He should be her enemy. She should be nothing more than a traitor. But when bloodshed forces them together, hatred gives way to something far more dangerous: an ancient bond neither of them can easily escape.
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Rage simmered beneath my ribs, white-hot and restless, as I stood before the castle entrance, waiting for the portcullis to rise. Banners hung from the stone walls—obscene swaths of crimson fabric that fluttered in the breeze, revealing the serpentine sigil of House Pendragon. I fought to keep my expression vacant. Impassive. I was no one. An insignificant kitchen maid, eager to earn a few extra coppers. I couldn’t let my true emotions bleed through. Too much was at stake, and yet, my stare lingered on the ramparts. The damask dragon was just as I remembered, red-scaled and two-legged. Embroidered flames spewed from the beast’s open maw, and its long, bat-like wings were spread out, as if the creature might take flight. In the quiet, I heard them still, the keening, ragged cries of my people, their suffering immortalized in every briny gust of wind that whipped through my hair. I could smell the smoke… taste the ash gathering at the back of my throat. If I closed my eyes, I was there, standing amid the chaos, watching my kingdom burn all over again—that horrid red banner still waving.
A sudden tug at the back of my gown drew me from my thoughts. Starting, I spun around, only to discover Ganieda, a familiar glint of disapproval burning bright in the old enchantress’s gaze.
“Head down, girl,” she hissed, “It’ll be the pyre for all of us if you don’t wipe the revulsion from your face.”
An embarrassed flush tinged my cheeks, and I hurried to do as she demanded. She was right. Of course, she was right. It was foolish of me to let my gaze waver. Reckless. I was behaving like a headstrong mortal.
“Come now, Ganieda. Show a little compassion,” interjected another voice, one as soft as pondweed.
From behind us, our third traveling companion stepped forward, her loch-green hair hidden beneath a kerchief. Like Ganieda and I, the Lady of the Lake had been given a simple, serving gown to wear before leaving Tintagel. Even in all its plainness it did little to dim her otherworldly beauty. Nimue offered me a light-hearted smile and hi join her attention back to the spellcaster.
“It is her Ladyship’s first outing. Don’t you remember our very first mission?”
Ganieda harrumphed and crossed her arms, her scowl like a whetted dagger as she looked me up and down.
“Of course I do,” she answered, “But that was then. Things are different now. There is more at risk.”
Frowning, Nimue parted her lips to respond and then froze when suddenly Ganieda lifted her hand in warning. Warily, I followed her gaze upward, toward the stone battlements where a lone mortal guard moved about, torch in hand. Noticing us, he stopped—broad-shouldered and cloaked in crimson. Moonlight fell across his face, revealing dark, deep-set eyes, and a face scarcely older than my own.
“Who goes there,” he called out, straining to see through the shadowy night.
Ganieda’s stare landed first on Nimue, and then on me—a silent command etched into her features. Stay quiet. Follow my lead. Nodding my head, I tightened my grip on the willow basket in my hands, and slunk into place, willing myself to be small. Mouse-like. Fear danced alongside anticipation as I watched the enchantress hobble ahead, slipping into her role of stooped kitchen drudge as easily as one might a slipper.
“No one but us back-hearth folk, m’lord,” she responded, her voice a roughened rasp. “Be a dear, and let us in, lad. Lady Morgause will have my hide if I do not get her these herbs soon.”
She lifted her own basket into the air and gestured at it as if the man were as thick as mud. For a moment, there was silence. Only the whirring of bush crickets livened the night, joined by the distant sound of waves breaking against the shore. The guard shifted uncertainly, leaning further against the railing to try and get a better look at us. His brown eyes lingered on me for a breadth or two and then shifted back to Ganieda.
“Neither lord nor servant is meant to be wandering outside the keep after dusk. Whereabouts were the three of you that you did not hear the chapel bells?”
Ganieda leveled a flustered look in the guard’s direction, feigning a sense of ruffled offense.
“Do you have wool in your ears, boy? I said I must get these herbs to my mistress. She cannot attend the banquet without fresh marjoram in her sachet.”
A muscle in the guard’s jaw feathered, and I could feel my pulse hastening in response. What would his reaction be? Would he simply command us to leave, or would he call for the others? Before either could say another word, I was moving, gliding through the dark and into the torchlight.
“Pay her no mind, m’lord,” I said, hurriedly stepping in front of the enchantress. “Old age has whittled her manners.”
I paused to lace my fingers through hers and offered the guard a timid smile.
“The truth of it is Lady Morgause did send my sister and I to the market, but…” I threw Ganieda a pitying look. “She is in no shape to be left alone. Ever since our grandsire died, she has been…different, prone to spells of madness and roaming about.”
Nimue followed my lead and hooked Ganieda’s arm through hers. With a sullen expression she nodded in false agreement.
“It takes no time at all for the two of us to make the trek there and back, but with Gran and her bad joints, why, I’m surprised we made it here before daybreak,” she smiled, forcing a nervous laugh.
The guard said nothing. He only listened to our story with measured patience, the chary tension in his posture somewhat waning. Sighing, he raked a hand down his stubbled face.
“Look, I can’t let you in, but there is a tavern a few miles west from here…”
“A tavern?!” exclaimed a voice.
The familiar sound of heels striking cobblestone drew nearer, disrupting the silence. Through the latticed grille of the portcullis a masked woman appeared on the other side. She was dressed in a flowing gown of burgundy, with bits of courtly gold woven into her ebony locks. Haughtily, she took off her bejeweled mask to glare daggers at the guard above.
“You dare to send my servants to a tavern? Let them in. Let them in at once!”
Color flooded the guard’s cheeks.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Morgause. I was only trying to…”
With a striking resemblance to our High Queen, Morgause raised a finger to her lips, rendering the guard silent.
“I don’t care,” she leered sweetly. “Be a good little lickspittle and open the gates.”
Clearing his throat, the guard gave a sharp whistle and waved his hands in the direction of the gatehouse. Seconds later, the windlass began to groan, and the sound of clattering chains and creaking wood rattled the night. Morgause lingered by the entrance for only a moment, before gathering her skirts and spinning on her heel. Together, the three of us trailed behind her, drifting through the inner courtyard. All the while, I could feel the guard’s eyes sweeping over me, as piercing as steel.
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