Prologue
Arthur Pendragon looked down from his vantage point on the highest watchtower in the castle. At this height, he could see the entire courtyard, bustling with people–peasants and nobles alike–despite the early hour.
To the west, outside the castle walls, he could see the city waking from its slumber. To the east was the King’s Forest, a large patch of choice woodland, cordoned off and well-guarded, where the King entertained himself and other nobles hunting wildlife.
This was Camelot.
Every time he stood atop this castle, he was struck with an odd yearning, an urge to haul himself down from the balustrade. He imagined his body on the cobbled stones of the courtyard, a mash of red flesh and white bone. Lifeless–ambition and greed stripped from his consciousness at last.
He swayed, hands gripping the rough stone of the watchtower. He could do it. Lean forward, swing his legs over the weathered wall, loosen his sweaty hands and fall. It would all end in a flash.
He should do it.
Frankly, he was exhausted. Countless years of being caught up in the endless mill of court scheming had left him stretched thin and threadbare. The King demanded his complete obedience, a total silence and an ever-bowed head. The Princess and Prince demanded his vacuity, a mind devoid of ambitions. His sister demanded his strength, his ability to shield them from life’s increasing abrasiveness.
Camelot demanded his loyalty. The great kingdom, once a bastion of military might and economic bountifulness, now cried for help, groaning in pain as foreign kings ripped into its flesh and Uther’s callousness brought its people to their knees.
Camelot needed a king. A true king.
Arthur Pendragon knew this; from the day he was born to this very moment, a truth as sure as the beating of his heart beneath his breast. Camelot needed a true king. And somewhere in his soul, burning at the edges of his ego, he knew he was the one.
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