You didn’t see this coming, did you? You let those strong arms lull you into trust; you thought that you had finally found your hero. Someone who would save the land; someone who would act on your behalf. If it was anyone, you half-sang to yourself, it would be Robena.

Robena, who struck down Pellinore when her back was turned. Robena, who dared strike during the judgment of a woman of the old blood. Robena, moving in tandem with the dragon you had hoped...

Merlin was right. You were a fool. Like your ancestors, those giants who once lived in the land, who were undone by cunning and courage. And now there is only you, tricked by a kind word and a handsome face.

“I came here with news for the knight who would save Britain,” you say, the fury building. “And to think I mistook you for her.”

You turn from Robena to Mort, unwilling to give her a word more. “Mort. Ready me a horse. I must return to Lostwithiel at once and inform my lady of the doom of King Pellinore.”