The sword gleamed as it slid through Arthur’s flesh, and the prince cried out in pain. Lance watched in horror as he dropped to his knees, doubling over and clutching at his rib cage. Blood seeped from beneath his hand, and he went still.

Lance stared down at the glowing blade, its light a ghoulish red from the prince’s blood, and felt as though he might collapse on the spot.

“What did you do?!” Merlin accused, rushing to the prince’s side.

“He told me to! Sard!” Lance said, his eyes wide with fright. He knelt down, shaking his friend. “Arthur! Arthur! How bad is it?”

Merlin hovered nervously, wand out, muttering curses.

Arthur wasn’t moving. And he looked pale.

Please, Lance thought. Please, no.

He picked up Arthur’s crumpled tunic, pressing it against the wound.

“Say something,” he begged, a sob rising in his throat.

And then Arthur looked up at him, his lips quirked, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Nice to know you care,” he said, standing up and brushing himself off.

“That was a joke?!” Lance roared.

“You said you were going to slay my nipple!” Arthur retorted. “With Excalibur!”

“So you pretended I killed you?!”

Lance let out a frustrated shout and shoved into the prince, sending them both rolling. They’d done it all the time as boys, fighting over the last sweet from the kitchen, or whatever book Lance had grabbed away when Arthur was ignoring him for too long.

But things were different now. Arthur was different. He was . . . the one true king.

Lance hesitated for a fraction of a second, which was all Arthur needed to pin him. They were breathing hard as they rolled to a stop. Arthur grinned down at him triumphantly, his cheeks pink, his hair falling into his eyes, the picture of perfect health.

“You let down your guard,” Arthur accused, surprised.

“Because you were wounded,” Lance protested.

“Actually, you both let down your guard,” Merlin interrupted, casually hefting the glowing sword. “You left Excalibur lying in the dirt.”

“We probably shouldn’t call it that,” said Arthur. “Someone might overhear.”

“Fine, you left Aunt Matilda lying in the dirt,” said the wizard, which made Lance howl with laughter. And then grimace with pain. Without the sword, his hangover had returned. With a vengeance.

“Ugh,” Lance moaned, clutching his head. “I wish you had capsized in that magic lake.”

“You do not,” Arthur said cheerfully, sheathing the sword.

“We should get back,” said Merlin. “Before those annoying guards come looking for us.”

“Sard. How am I going to explain this?” Arthur tented his torn and blood-soaked tunic with a grimace.

“Abdere.” The wizard waved a hand as though shooing away a mosquito. The prince’s tunic unwrinkled itself, the blood and rip disappearing.

“That itched,” Arthur complained. “You could have warned me.”