His smile eroded.

Rafal was still standing there, a sword in his head, a cheeky grin on his face. Slowly the blood seeped back into the wound around the sword before the young School Master reached up, took a hold of the hilt, and drew the blade out of his skull. The hole in his head sealed up, smoothing to fresh, young skin, as Rafal wiped the blood off the steel edge with his bare palm, his eyes never leaving Lancelot.

Sophie too was grinning now, stroking the gold ring on her finger, which had kept her true love alive.

“Our friend seems to have misplaced his sword,” the young School Master said to her.

“Tends to have a habit of meddling in other people’s business, if I remember,” said Sophie. “Especially mine.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to be the one to return his weapon?” Rafal asked.

Sophie gripped the sword by the hilt. “Would be my honor.”

Slowly she lifted cold eyes to Lancelot, her fingertip glowing pink. “Never liked him much anyway.”

She fired her glow to the knight’s blade and shot it like a bullet across the Forest—

Lancelot didn’t even have time to breathe. His own sword rammed into his shoulder, cutting clean through skin and tissue before spearing into the tree trunk. The knight let out a lion’s roar of pain, pinned to the elm like a piece of meat.

Sophie cozied up to Rafal. “Complication solved.”

Agatha and Tedros were white as death. All the other heroes cowered against the trees, watching their greatest warrior whimper and flail, immobilized by his own weapon.

Rafal caressed Sophie’s cheek. “Like I said, my queen makes me look soft.”

Agatha could see the dark pleasure in Sophie’s face and the yellow, catlike glow in her pupils. Suddenly her hope to make her friend destroy her ring seemed numbskulled and naive. Merlin had warned her: there would be no easy path to Ever After. Because there was nothing she could say to make Sophie destroy that ring now . . . nothing she could say to bring her back to Good. . . .

Because there was no Good in Sophie anymore.

“Help me, boy,” Lancelot cried out to Tedros. “Help me loose!”

Tedros didn’t budge.

Agatha could see him watching Lancelot on the tree. The sword was buried at the top of the knight’s shoulder, away from vital organs and clotting the wound from bleeding out. As long as Lancelot stayed there, he’d be in excruciating pain . . . but safe. Because the second Tedros helped Lancelot off that tree, Lance would make another charge for Rafal and end up dead on the spot. Villains didn’t offer mercy more than once. And whatever happened to Tedros from here, whatever he had to sacrifice to help Good win—even his own self—he’d make damned well sure of one thing: Lancelot would go back to his mother alive.

The knight saw the change in Tedros’ face. “Tedros, no! Don’t fight them alone!”