Another time, I might be relieved not to be seen by all of the original knights at once. Relieved to not have to explain why I am here, who I am, when I’m from. But right now, it just feels wrong. Because…

I shouldn’t be me here.

I should be Arthur.

Immediately, my eyes find the single unoccupied chair across from me. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I inch toward Arthur’s place at the table.

Just as I reach the edge, tall, wooden double doors open in the far corner of the room. A young Arthur himself strides through in full regalia: a long fur coat, bronze circlet over his thick, blonde-brown hair, eyes dancing like they hold a secret.

The Table cheers at the approaching king. “There he is!” a voice calls.

“You’re late, my liege!”

“We started without you, Pendragon!”

I clamber off the table to meet Arthur halfway. “You asshole!” I attempt to call on the aether in the room—but nothing comes.

Even on my worst days with Arthur’s power, I could at least bring some aether to my fingertips. Here, it’s like it doesn’t exist.

Arthur’s stride doesn’t falter, his attention never wavers—and he walks right through me.

A dizzying, awful sensation shoots from my stomach to my throat.

“Let me guess,” the young king calls with a laugh, “Caradoc drank all of the mead?”

While the table roars in delight and Arthur reaches for a tankard, I shudder. Even air gets displaced, but he moved through me as though I was less than air. Like I was nothing.

Truth settles in my throat.

This is not a blood walk.

The last time I was in the Table’s chamber in Camelot, I had arrived via the Rite and the world felt like a fiction. Every man there was an otherworldly spirit, dormant and waiting. But here the knights are so solid I could reach out and touch one of them.

This is not a vision.

Light catches my eye—Caradoc reaching across the table through a sunbeam. Candle stands spread about the room offer a warm glow, but the sharp, pungent odor of tallow-candle smoke from Arthur’s memories is completely absent. The tapestries hanging on golden rods around the room look as if they’ve just been woven. Colors saturated and threads perfect… all is pristine.

This not a memory.

My stomach tightens. What had Arthur said when I’d asked where he’d been before he’d Awakened?

I rest in Camelot.

Merlin sent you to Camelot?

Merlin sent me to my dreams.

I suck in a breath. Arthur’s dreams. I’m in his dreams, inside the waiting realm of an imagined Camelot. I stumble backward, away from the fabricated men and mirth.