The funeral was barely finished before Arthur was summoned before his father’s advisors, who declared him utterly lacking. He was, they accused, deficient in every subject that a royal heir of eighteen should have long since mastered. No matter that his French was fluent, his Latin excellent, and his knowledge of medicinal herbs first-rate. He knew nothing of hunting, hawking, or combat. And even more troubling, he preferred the company of Sir Ector’s bastard, Lancelot, a lad so questionable that his own uncle had refused to take him on as squire.

And now he was going to embarrass himself over a magic sword. Perfect.

He stumbled a little, unsteady from the drink, but his gaze stayed fixed on the sword. It was buried to the hilt in a block of stone, just like in the stories. If he squinted, he could make out the engraving: Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of all England.

Fair chance. He wasn’t even rightwise prince born of Camelot.

The crowd was keen for his defeat, and Sir Kay was eager for Arthur’s failure to eclipse his own.

He could sense everyone’s scorn bubbling up around him. They didn’t think he could do it. They just wanted to have a laugh at his expense. He was never going to be enough. For his father, or for Camelot.

“Get on with it!” someone shouted.

Arthur closed his hands around the sword’s cool iron hilt, feeling foolish.

Here goes nothing, he thought, as he squared his shoulders and pulled.

The sword came loose as easily as if it had been resting in a well-oiled sheath.

He stumbled backward in surprise, gripping the blade in both hands.

The crowd stood frozen and silent, their eyes wide with shock. For a long, shuddering moment, no one reacted. And then a tremendous cheer rippled through the courtyard, and the alleyway beyond.

He’d done it! He’d pulled the sword from the stone! But—but how? His head spun, and he realized belatedly that Sir Kay wasn’t cheering.

“You all saw that I loosened it,” the knight claimed. “It’s only fair that we try again.”

Before Arthur could protest, Sir Kay had fitted the sword back into the stone, his smile wide. The knight eagerly clasped his hands around the hilt and pulled. And pulled again, harder this time, grunting loudly from the effort.

But the sword stuck fast once again.

Sir Kay finally stepped away, bidding Arthur try with a mocking sweep of his hand.

The courtyard fell silent. No one dared to jeer after what they had just seen: the king’s bastard, all of eighteen, skinny and bookish and so drunk he could barely stand, had pulled the sword from the stone like it was nothing. While the famous Sir Kay, tournament champion, had failed—twice.