King Yurien strode into the throne room, a few steps ahead of his wife. Attendants followed behind, their formation making them appear more like soldiers than guards. Arthur had expected a grim warrior, but King Yurien was nothing of the sort. He was a man gone soft, with a ruddy complexion, and a hardness to his eyes that hinted at what would happen if he didn’t get his way. His fading ginger hair was extravagantly coiffed, in an attempt to cover more of his head than it should. He looked like an overfed noble, the sort who complained of gout while ordering another tureen of duck liver from the kitchens. His wealth was on display with every jewel-encrusted button and fur-lined sleeve. He wore no weapons, and no crown—of course not, Arthur thought—it would ruin his hair. But even so, there was no doubt that he was a man of great power.

Unlike the king, the queen was delicate and demure, a petite figure in black and cream velvet. As she drew nearer, Arthur was surprised to see that she couldn’t be much older than thirty. She wore a gable-hooded veil, which covered her hair with a length of silk. Such things weren’t the fashion in Camelot, and Arthur found the style severe, even trimmed as it was in pearls.

Behind her, wide-eyed and fidgeting, was a ginger-haired slip of a boy of eight or nine, who was dressed in replica of his father. He regarded the Great Hall in awe, half hidden behind his mother’s skirts.

“King Uther,” said King Yurien. “It appears I’ve kept you waiting. My ship had some trouble putting in at Radcliffe.”

“I understood you were to dock at Blackwall,” said Uther with a frown. “It is no matter.”

Two of Yurien’s attendants stepped forward with a large cloth-covered rectangle. A painting.

“A gift,” said Yurien. “To decorate your castle. I had it commissioned from the finest artist in my kingdom.”

“You are too generous,” said King Uther.

The attendants removed the cloth, and Arthur fought to keep his expression neutral. It was a painting of King Yurien’s forces invading Northumbria. A painstaking depiction of a blood-soaked battlefield, with a village burning in the distance and a large pile of peasants lying dead in the town square. The painting was exquisite in detail, yet utterly ghoulish in subject.

The gift was an unmistakable threat.

“It would look well in this throne room,” King Yurien said, his smile sharp as a blade as King Uther shifted uneasily on his throne.

Arthur matched Yurien’s smile, stepping forward. “And even better in the armory,” he said, his tone light. “To serve as motivation while training.”

Yurien gave a nod of acknowledgment and exchanged a few more empty sentiments with the king. Arthur smiled and nodded at the exchange, feigning interest, yet whenever Arthur looked up, Yurien was staring straight at him.