“In the sword-fighting contest?” Arthur said incredulously, hoping he’d misheard.

“It will send a warning that Camelot shouldn’t be trifled with,” the king said decisively. “In the contest, in front of our kingdom’s noble families and our royal guests from afar, you will draw Excalibur—”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the king held up his hand for silence.

“And then, after everyone has seen the sword for themselves, you will graciously set it aside, and compete with an ordinary blade.”

Arthur’s stomach flipped.

“But I’m no champion swordsman,” he protested. “Not against the best knights in the realm.”

“That’s of no matter,” said Lord Agravaine. “You’ll have a distinct advantage.”

“And what advantage is that?” Arthur asked.

Lord Agravaine’s grin was as sharp as a knife. “Why, that scabbard, of course.”

Arthur quietly choked.

“You were clever to keep its power quiet in front of the court,” Lord Agravaine went on. “And now, you can use it without appearing to cheat.”

“But, Father—” Arthur began.

King Uther swept his drink to the floor, the foul liquid splattering everywhere.

“I believe I made myself clear,” growled the king, his voice low in warning. “Any man would be a fool to rise against the crown that wields Excalibur. Your participation isn’t a request. It’s a command.”

Arthur squared his jaw, but said nothing. Once again, his life was being decided for him. And he hated it.

“Of course, Father,” he murmured with a bow.

Arthur felt sick as he left his father’s chambers.

He hated that he was expected to cheat against his own knights in front of every noble in the kingdom, and visiting royals besides.

And he didn’t see a way out of it.

He knew his father feared King Yurien, and with good reason. When Yurien had seized control of Lothia, the kingdom’s coffers were nearly empty from paying tribute to Alba. Keeping the peace with the northern kings—three fierce brothers who ruled as one enemy—came with a heavy price tag.

And it was one that Yurien refused to pay. Instead, he had turned his army on neighboring Northumbria, burning and pillaging every unsuspecting town just across the border until their king begged for peace. And when he did, Yurien had gladly granted it—so long as Northumbria paid the Albans’ tribute on their behalf.

In the months since, Northumbria had withered under the financial strain, while Lothia had flourished. King Yurien was obviously strengthening his army. And it was anyone’s guess whether he would move west, to seize the kingdom he had already weakened, north, to wage war against the brothers who made such impossible demands, or south, toward the once prosperous Cameliard, in pursuit of an empire.

And if Cameliard fell to Yurien, then Camelot was as good as doomed, and Cornwall along with them.