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Ana loathed many a thing – she loathed the suitors that her Father would endlessly parade around in front of her, she loathed the fact she would meet his hand were she to deny what he wanted but above all, Ana loathed death.

She stood now upon the landing that her and her brother had aptly named the Griffin Landing ( for a ostentatious yet hideous statue of a griffin guarded the bottom of the stairwell ) and considered the view out of the window. Blood still splattered the gallows and Ana felt the need to swallow back thick bile. The woman had spoken true. Justin was a good King, certainly; but his foundations were based upon double standards. He would grant clemency to those who he believed deserved it but were they magic, there was scarce time when he would even give them a trial.

He had poisoned the law and justice system until it was built upon nothing but ash.

"Ana," a voice barked, followed by harsh footfalls. Ana didn't have to turn to know it was her Father. Curious; for one with such a hard heart to have such a soft voice.

"Yes?" she replied, pivoting to face him.

Her Father's arms stretched wide and his eyes were wild, angry. The look he would normally get in his eyes before his hand would fly. "What is this? Why are you not joining us at the feast?"

Ana tutted, eyes squinting. "I just don't think that chopping someone's head off is cause for celebration." In many ways, the Queen and she were the same – it had been her and not Justin who had taught her the ways of the world and what was right, what was wrong. How often did Justin fall into the latter?

The King scoffed. "It was simple justice for what he had done."

"To whom?" Ana countered. "He practiced magic. He didn't hurt anyone."

Her Father stepped forward and in the dance they knew well, Ana stepped back. His ire was something that she didn't ever want to prompt but Ana was strong-willed. She couldn't help but speak out against what had disturbed her to the core. And often, that would end in her being punished.

The King leaned in close – close enough that she could smell ale upon his breath. "You were not around twenty years ago. You have no idea what it was like."

But she did. Her Mother had told her tales of the Druids and warlocks and witches; the terms had become diseased but they were a kind, gentle people. Like anything, they had been tarred with the brush of violent protestors and now anyone who assigned themselves to the supernatural would face the same punishment. No matter how innocent their intentions.

"How long are you going to keep punishing people for Mother disappointing you, Father?" Ana asked, but her voice was more mouse than lion. Her eyes grew wet and throat tight in fear – she knew she would suffer for that.

And she did. Her Father's hand snatched out and grasped her wrist – a grip unyielding as he twisted it around. Were he to twist it any more, she feared the fragile bones within would snap but she fortified herself against it and met his eyes.

"You will be with me to greet Lady Helen," he hissed.

Rarely did Ana fight back against her Father but death still tainted the air and the pain in her wrist made her survival instincts kick in. "I told you I want no part in these celebrations," she whispered, free hand coming to rest atop of his. "Father, please."

"That's right, Anastasia," her Father spoke, voice of a killer nightingale once more. "I am your Father. So I expect you to do as I ask. If you do not respect me, " – there were oftentimes when she did not – " then you will at least show respect to our finest singer."

And finally, he released her wrist to reveal a shadow of darkening blue already. Another to cover from her Mother. Then, he turned tail and stormed back towards the dining hall.

"You know the more brutal you are, the more enemies you'll create!" Ana called after him and instead of turning around to punish her more, he slammed the door so hard it sounded like a bear roaring.

The first on that list of enemies would be Ana.

And that was a fact that Justin knew well enough – but he wasn't afraid. For it was a clear sign in everything that she did ( save for the times when she would be disobedient as just now ) that she would do anything to keep him happy. She loved him and he saw her as nothing more than a burden that needed to be squashed quickly. He knew he should have drowned her the moment that she was born but the little Princess had been welcomed to the Kingdom and court as if she was a precious treasure and it would look questionable were a baby to be strangled in her crib.

Everyone rose as he stepped into the hall and he gestured for them to sit before he took his own seat beside his wife – who was sat looking as miserable as sin.

His hand reached over to rest upon hers and he squeezed gently. Though many would align her with their daughter, she was different in Justin's eyes. A nuisance, yes, but he believed her simply to be embittered by circumstance. He would be able to pull her back and even if he couldn't – he loved her. He loved her beyond all measure and that was a love that couldn't be dulled but oh, even Justin had to admit that it could be silenced at times. Times such as today when he had to kill one of her kind. He knew that she would have felt that Mother's pain as if it were her own.

Empathy was weakness.

"What troubles you, my love?" he asked, pressing his lips to her temple.

"Everything," she replied, leaving no room for question as she pulled her head back some. Her eyes met his and she frowned, peering around him to find the seat beside Felix empty still. "Ana would not come?"

Justin fell back into his seat, scoffing and reaching over for his goblet. "She is spirited." It would be knocked out of her soon enough. "Just like her Mother," he spoke before he took a hearty gulp of his wine.

A smile spread across Mordred's lips but it was gone as quickly as it was there. "I should go and check on her."

"No," Justin ordered, hand coming back down onto hers. "Stay here. We can tell everyone she feels sick." It was not far from the truth and now, she would have to retreat back to her chambers to lick at her wounds. Good. Perhaps it would teach her some respect.

Mordred looked as if she was about to protest but she nodded and sank into her seat, pulling her hands from his once more.

Such was the happiness of their marriage.

CHAPTER THREE

Her nights are always filled the same way, with the same visions; dark marks upon a naked body, the sound of heavy breathing and soft whimpering in the night and the sound of her howl as the nightmare of that night was finally brought into the world. She had believed it to be a monster that would slip from between her legs, just like the man that had slipped between them but no, no it was a precious human child.

"Your Highness?" a soft voice came through the door and Mordred sat up in her bed. She peered out of the window, absorbing the rich colour of dawn and allowed it to soak into her skin. It would be spring soon and winter would shed its coat over Camelot – everything always seemed renewed in springtide.

"Come in," she called.

Normally, there would be Sir Derek ( more Knight than servant, but most mornings, he insisted upon bringing her breakfast ) but instead, today there stood the boy from yesterday. John's son – Stiles. But as he stepped through the door and the sun kissed his skin, he looked more like Claudia than John. The dimpled cheeks and the freckles that dotted his skin like stars. That half-smile that seemed always to be there even when he was professional belonged to his Father, however.

Stiles craned his back in a gentle bow. "Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning, Stiles," Mordred spoke in return, propping up her pillows and smoothing the bedcovers in preparation for the breakfast that was to come.

Stiles' face was screwed up in concentration as he edged towards the bed, clearly painfully aware that spilling breakfast over the Queen was not the best way to start his first day of work. However, she did wonder how he managed to swindle the responsibility from Derek.

"How did you sleep?" she asked to ease his anxiety.

His tongue stuck between his teeth as he lowered the silver tray upon her lap, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Well, my lady. And yourself?" he asked, fingers flying out to gesticulate – and taking the goblet of water with it. He flushed ruby red and looked as if he was about ready to commit his own execution but Mordred consoled him by laughing out into the morning.

"You remind me of my husband when he was your age," she said through a warm smile as she quickly mopped up the water with but one flash of her eyes – Stiles already knew of her powers, there was little point in swallowing them down.

But Stiles looked astounded. "How did you do that?" he asked. "Did you incant the spell in your mind? I've read books and my Mother's told me stories of wizards and witches who could do that."

Mordred blenched at the word. "I'm a Druid," she explained, dipping her spoon into the watery porridge. It looked far from appetising – more something that the cook had regurgitated rather than prepared by hand but she was from lesser beginnings. She had learned the value of taking what she could get. "We have practised magic since we reach five years old. You do not learn spells as much as it simply happens."

Fascination made home upon Stiles' features before she heard Deaton's – the court physician – voice ringing out into the hallway, asking for him.

"You'd better run along," she smiled. "He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Stiles bowed before offering an apprehensive smile. "May I hear the rest some time, my lady? Of the Druids?"

"Of course."

It had been a while since Mordred had told stories to her own children.

"I trust I did not just hear you making conversation with the Queen," Deaton reprimanded Stiles the moment that he stepped out of the room. He was a kind looking man but there was a gloom in his voice that made Stiles realise that he was probably trained in the art of being a physician for more reasons than to help others. The thought alone made him gulp.

"She started talking to me, sir," he explained and it was the truth – perhaps it was wishful thinking but Stiles couldn't help but think that he had already made a good impression upon the monarch.

"Mm," Deaton hummed, clearly not believing him before he signalled the parchment in his hand. Upon his wrist dangled a box full of all manner of vials and draughts. The rounds of the day, Stiles supposed. "This is only temporary," he continued in a warning. "Just until we can find you permanent paid work in the Castle."

Stiles resisted the urge to pull a face. Already, the man was looking down on him.

"Hollyhock and Feverfew for Lady Percival, and this is for Sir Olwin," Deaton continued, handing out the different bottles to Stiles as he spoke. "He's as blind as a weevil, so warn him not to take it all at once."

"Okay," Stiles nodded.

"And here," Deaton started, reaching his hand into the sac and pulling out a steaming sandwich. The moment the scent hit his nostrils, Stiles knew what it was – bacon. Such a delicacy was rare even in his town and he had to muffle down the squeal of excitement that rose in his mouth. Perhaps Deaton wasn't so bad after all. He even smiled at him as if he could sense his enthusiasm. "Off you go."

And off, Stiles went, taking hearty bites of his sandwich as he went around doing his rounds. He took his time, however, marvelling in the intricate gothic detail that lined each and every part of the Castle. It was a masterpiece in itself and Stiles couldn't wait to explore every inch of it.

He made his way out of it and towards the cobbled square which was already active with people. He wrapped his knuckles upon the door when he found Sir Olwin's door and gave a sincere, welcoming smile to the old man that answered. His eyes were almost completely white – a sign of the man's blindness that Deaton had warned him of and he had no teeth save for one that wobbled upon the edge of his gum – and was black as night. "I brought you your medicine," Stiles said, placing the bottle into his hand and ensuring that the man's wrinkly old fingers definitely looped around the neck of it. Once he was certain that the man had it in hand, he turned away – before remembering something and saying – "Oh, by the way, Deaton said to not - "

But already, Sir Olwin had popped the cork and downed the potion in one.

Stiles pursed his lips before shrugging. "I'm sure it's fine."

When Stiles had finished his rounds, he decided to discover more of the grounds before Deaton or his Father placed more jobs upon his shoulders. The dust kicked around his boots and clung to them as he walked through the spring sun, allowing it to saturate his skin. The yellow landscape before him was unlike Ealdor – Ealdor was just green everywhere that he took a step. This was bright and exciting and full of life.

"Where's the target?" a voice called – as if to remind Stiles that life came with more than its fair share of disturbances. Multiple bays of laughter followed like a pack of wolves and Stiles' eyes lifted to follow the sound.

A man stood in a loose tunic and was tossing a knife from one hand to the other while surrounded by another three men. They were all huge, muscles no doubt rippling beneath the fabric and each and every one of them looked as if they could snap Stiles' neck in but one flick of their wrist.

"There, Sir?" a poor serving boy asked as he moved the target to a better position.

"It's into the sun?" the Knight spoke, condescending. As if it was the simplest thing in the world.

"It's not that bright," the boy offered.

"A bit like you, then," the Knight continued, harsh.

A wave of laughter poured once more.

The boy looked as if he was about to cry. "I'll put it over here, shall I?" And once he received confirmation from the Knight, he lifted up the wooden block and began to transfer it towards the other side of the court. But before he could, the dagger embedded itself into the target while it was moving. "Hey! Hang on!"

"Don't stop," the Knight ordered.

The boy took a few steps back. "Here?"

"I told you to keep moving!" the Knight shouted, almost a roar as he let another dagger fly loose. It was obviously controlled but it was still a cruel joke nonetheless. "Go on. Run." The malice continued for a while until finally, the target slipped out of the boy's hand and rolled over until it landed in front of Stiles' boots. He raised one to rest upon it so that the serving boy couldn't pick it up – not to join in the 'fun' but to prevent it.

"Hey, come on, that's enough," he called to the Knights.

The leader's head snapped up. "What?"

"You've had your fun, my friend," Stiles continued, voice firm.

The Knight pursed his lips. "Do I know you?"

"Er, no. I'm Stiles," he introduced, holding out a hand.

It was ignored. "So I don't know you."

"No..." Stiles continued, dropping his hand back to his side.

The Knight's lips puckered all the more – into a full-blown pout. "Yet you call me friend."

Stiles shifted upon his feet to try and keep his composure. "My mistake."

"Yes, I think so."

"Yeah…" Stiles trailed off, taking a small step forward to close the gap between them. "I don't think I'd have a friend who could be such an ass." His friends back in Ealdor didn't count. To Stiles' pleasure, another rumble of laughter rocked out through the courtyard – though it was swiftly silenced by one look from the Knight.

Stiles turned to walk away – he'd said his piece and hoped that would be the end of it. Getting into a fight on his first day wouldn't help improve his reputation much.

"Nor I one that could be so stupid," the Knight snorted.

Stiles stopped. Reputations, repusmashions. He pivoted around to face him once more.

The Knight was walking towards him. "Tell me, Stiles. Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

"No," Stiles answered between gritted teeth.

"Would you like me to teach you?"

Stiles laughed, deep and dark. Like the bruise he wanted to leave on the Knight's face. "I wouldn't if I were you."

The Knight chuckled, sparing a gaze back towards the pack of other lackies behind him. They reminded Stiles of the bullies back in Ealdor that would chase him and his friends into the thickets by the woods and stomp on whatever it had been they were collecting for the village that day. They laughed the same as them but they would fall the same way they did – all bullies did eventually. "Why? What are you going to do to me?"

"You have no idea," Stiles threatened, arms crossing over a broad chest. Yes, he was slim but he was strong – such was the outcome of carrying sacks of flour and potatoes and grain.

"Come on, then," the Knight challenged, raising his arms out.

Stiles clenched his teeth together before he pulled his arm back and swung himself forward, aiming to land his fist right into the Knight's cheek but before he could, his arm was being twisted so tight around his back he feared it might break. "Okay, you've proved your point!" he groaned, trying to wiggle free but the Knight's grip was unrelenting.

"Derek, let go," a voice came from afar – one that sounded powerful but kind at the same time and soon enough, the ache in Stiles' forearm was relaxed. He rubbed at his wrist and peered up at the boy – man – who stood at least a foot taller than him and he gulped back the worry rising in his throat before he bowed. He didn't have to ask to know who he was – he looked exactly like the King.

"Your Highness."

The Prince smiled and gave an incline of his head in acknowledgement.

"Forgive me, sire," the Knight, now known as Derek, apologised. He didn't bow, however, and his voice was a sneer more than an apology. "I was teaching this runt some manners."

"As I saw," the Prince said through a laugh before he shook his head. "Come with me, we'll cool you off."

"Oh, no," Stiles muttered beneath his breath as the first hit of mouldy, sopping tomatoes hit him in the face. 'Cooling off' seemed to have a different definition to the Prince than it did to Stiles for being bound up in a wooden stock and having fruit which was God-knows-how-old pelted at him was not in his. He groaned as the wet, seedy substance clung to his cheeks and his fingers, though long, were not long enough to wipe it away from his eyes or his lips. Perfect. At least it wasn't a spell in the dungeons.

From afar, the Prince laughed and urged the children to remain throwing before disappearing into the crowds. For some strange reason, Stiles couldn't find it within him to hate him. After all, only the morning before he had seen his Father execute someone for a crime that in his eyes was less than assaulting a Knight. Perhaps he was fairer of heart than the King, after all. Not that that seemed to take much effort.

After some soft carrots and weeping apples smacked him in the face, the children sped off in search of new, rotten goods. Stiles sighed out, grateful for the break.

"Getting yourself into trouble already, I see," a familiar, soft song of a voice came from behind him and Stiles winced as he saw the Queen nearing him.

"Forgive me for not bowing, my lady," he said with a wry grin.

"I heard what you did," the Queen continued, hands clasped over her stomach. "It was brave."

Stiles grunted. "It was stupid." Which was why he was in the stocks. But how had word already spread so quickly of his fight with Derek? The gossip vine of Camelot had faster workers than Ealdor, obviously.

"Well, I'm glad you walked away," the Queen hummed, reaching over to brush some tomato seed that was about to drop into the servant's eye. Stiles flushed for he couldn't bear for her hands to be tainted by rotten fruit – but she didn't seem to mind. She even brushed it off on the fine silken skirt that she wore. "You wouldn't have beaten him."

Stiles snorted once more. "I could have."

"You think?" the Queen replied before she smiled, giving a playful pinch to what muscle she could see within the stocks. Stiles probably could have defeated Derek were he not caught off guard – he had the strength to, after all. The Queen seemed to realise this as she pulled back and nodded. "Mm. Perhaps you could have. You're stronger than you look, Stiles. Derek's strength comes in his experience. He knows that he is more than likely to win but all men trip up sooner or later." She paused before laughing softly to herself as if it was a rare thing. "Well, it's good that you stood up to him."

"You think so?"

"Everyone thought you were a hero."

Stiles looked down at his boots, peeking under the stocks. "I'm not a hero."

"We'll see," the Queen spoke, plucking a banana peel from his hair.

The raucous sound of excited children's laughter had Stiles groaning before he excused himself from the Queen, "If you'll excuse me, Your Highness, my - fans are waiting."

The Queen just managed to flee before the onslaught of fruit began once more.

It carried on for another hour or so before a Knight that Stiles hadn't met before freed him from the stocks and gave him a towel – which was a kind gesture that he had not been expecting – and sent him along his way. But that punishment would be nothing in comparison to what his Father's reaction would be were he to find out – and of course, he would. He was the Captain. Perhaps ( a naïve thought that passed through Stiles' mind ) his Father would have punished Sir Derek more than anyone.

But as he stepped through the door to his new home and found his Father cradling a goblet of something no doubt alcoholic, Stiles doubted that he would get away lightly.

"Would you like some vegetables with that?" his Father asked, gesturing to the flecks of carrot and broccoli that littered his hair.

Stiles tried to laugh to relax the mood. "I know you're angry with me."

"Your Mother asked me to look after you."

Stiles sat down, taking a long swig of water. "We're looking after each other, aren't we?" That seemed to give his Father something to chew over so Stiles took the opportunity to change the subject away from anything fruit or vegetable or mineral. "Did you ever study magic?"

His Father almost choked. "Excuse me?"

"Did you?"

His Father swallowed back his ale before shaking his head. "Justin banned such practises twenty years back – just before the Princess was born."

"Why?" Stiles asked.

"People used magic for the wrong end at that time. It threw the natural order into chaos. Justin made it his mission to destroy everything from back then, even the dragons." Sadness shifted upon his Father's face that Stiles couldn't quite decipher.

"…All of them?"

His Father nodded. "There was one dragon he chose not to kill, kept it as an example. He imprisoned it in a cave deep beneath the castle where no one can free it. Now, eat up. When you've finished, Deaton left a preparation for you to take to Lady Helen. She needs it for her voice."

After Stiles supped upon a watery broth and munched down some stale bread, he gathered up the vial and made his way to Lady Helen's chambers. Which took a fair deal longer than he had thought – the Castle itself was labyrinthine, winding corridors and doors that all looked the same. Stiles doubted he ever would be able to remember his way around but after asking another friendly looking servant, he found that the guests almost always stayed in the West Wing.

He knocked on the door but when no reply came, he let himself in – perhaps a mistake but if she needed the vial, then she needed it. After all, he couldn't be expected to wait there for hours on end. He placed the bottle down upon the wooden table and was about to turn tail before anyone caught him inside before something caught his eye. A doll – made of thick straw and bound at the neck, the arms and the feet to make it look like a person.

An effigy. The very darkest practise of magic.

Stiles barely repressed the gasp that worked its way up his throat but still, curiosity found himself reaching out for it and brushing his fingers across the straw. It had every single hair on his body standing on edge. Even more so when he saw what the doll was lying on – a leather bound book that seemed to hum within the dimming light of day. A magic book.

"What are you doing in here?" a clipped tone snapped, causing him to pull his hands away.

"I - I was asked to deliver this," Stiles covered, lifting up the glass bottle.

She plucked it swiftly from his fingers before barking, "That will be all."

Stiles had faced a Knight that day and a Prince and a Queen – but it was Lady Helen's word that had him fleeing for his life.

CHAPTER FOUR

The chores and errands that Stiles had to run seemed to be never-ending and it wasn't long before he felt as if he knew the Castle and the grounds surrounding them like the back of his hand. He had sectioned the areas into four wings – which was acceptable, of course. The North was where the King and Queen's chambers were, the South where the servant's quarters and kitchens were, the West where the guests and entertainers and passing noblemen would stay and finally, the East where the Prince and Princess's chambers were. He had yet to venture there for fear of running into the Prince and earning another spell in the stocks. Although meeting with the Princess didn't seem too ill of a fate.

"How's your knee-walking coming along?" a voice, mocking, interrupted his daydream.

There was a time for fighting back and Stiles had learned that in Camelot, it earned in punishment so he steeled himself and kept walking, keeping his gaze forward.

"Oh, don't run away," the voice continued – almost a sing-song.

Patronising enough to bring Stiles' gait to a standstill. His maturation didn't last long.

"From you?" he scoffed.

"Thank God," Derek continued through a wistful sigh. "I thought you were deaf as well as dumb."

Stiles' laugh rattled with mirth. "Look, I've already told you you're an ass," he spoke as he turned around to face him, riding upon the heel of his boot. "I just didn't realise you were an ass with friends in high places."

Derek looked as if he wanted to punch him in the face and Stiles would have welcomed it. It would have meant that he was provoked.

"What are you going to do, Sir Derek? Send all the King's horses and all the King's men against me?" Stiles goaded.

"I could take you apart with one blow," Derek warned.

"I could take you apart with less than that," Stiles countered – proud of himself for the short volley.

Derek tightened his lips, raising his eyebrows. "You sure about that?"

A small commotion had gathered around them – people flew to fights like flies to corpses. Stiles only hoped that it wouldn't end with a cadaver but all the same, he would not allow himself to lose face. Even if this was not the smartest thing to do, it was what his blood demanded so with one swift movement, he shrugged his jacket from his chest and threw it to the hay riddled ground.

Derek laughed, throwing back his head. He pulled a mace from his back and tossed it over to him, "Here you go."

Stiles, unfortunately dropped it and leaned down to pick it up. Derek's laugher continued and with barely unnoticeable turns of his wrists, he made his own mace slice through the air in skilful patterns. A peacock showing his feathers.

"I warn you – I've been trained to kill since birth."

Stiles scoffed. "Wow…" he emphasised. "And - how long have you been training to be a prat?"

Derek didn't seem to know how to take in that insult so he let his eyebrows do the talking for a moment. "You can't address me like that."

"You're right, you're right. I'm sorry," Stiles corrected. "How long have you been training to be a prat -" and he fell forwards into a bow. "…My lord?"

Laughter echoed through the court and Stiles glowed in the praise. But Derek was far from laughing and whilst Stiles was distracted in his revelry, he swung the mace towards him – aiming straight for his head. If this was a friendly fight, Derek had obviously missed that note. Luckily, the servant boy had the reflexes to be able to stumble back and back-step towards the market stalls. Manoeuvring around them and the people was difficult but Derek had the sense to be able to aim in a way that would not hurt any of the peasants who were merely trying to sell their wares and not get a mace in the face for their troubles. Stiles only wished he was granted the same mercy.

A clumsy yell parted from his lips as the back of his boot collided with a barrel, sending him toppling onto the floor.

"You're in trouble now," Derek smirked, lifting his arm to bring the mace down into the boy's stomach.

"Oh, God," Stiles called out – half in prayer, half in shock.

But as Derek's mace began its descent, the metal chain of it became ensnared around thick meat hooks so that it became stuck – and his weapon. Stiles' gaze snapped up and he found the Queen looking from her window with an eyebrow raised. Had she saved him? Derek's gaze, too, had lifted back there as if he had known that that was what had happened.

Instead, Derek's boot kicked out and stomped on Stiles' throat, winding him.

Guards wound their hands around his arms and drew him up, coughing and spluttering. They began to lead him back towards the Castle but Derek raised his hand.

"Stop. Let him go. He may be an idiot but – he's a brave one."

That was new.

"How could you be so foolish?!" Derek demanded as he stormed into the Queen's chambers. Certainly, to have been heard talking to a Queen thus would surely result in his head being knocked from his shoulders quicker than he could apologise – but there was a far deeper bond between the two of them and while he respected her, he wanted to keep her safe more.

"Good afternoon to you, too," came the purr from Mordred – but she was stern as if she was preparing for a fight. "You needed to be taught a lesson."

"Taught a lesson?!" Derek retorted before he remembered himself and drew in a deep breath. "My lady. I was teaching that runt a lesson. And you embarrassed me in front of my men and the rest of the people."

"No, you did that for yourself."

She had him there. Often did Derek let his pride get in the way of his logic but that was a malaise that Mordred never allowed herself to fall to. She was the one that would pull him back whenever he allowed himself to – and that was what she was doing now. The boy had wounded him but he was just that : a boy. He shouldn't have allowed himself to get so worked up but he had.

So, Derek smiled and gave a nod. "Yes. But – " he paused, giving a heavy sigh as he reached out, fingers interweaving with her own. "- you could have been seen. You know well enough that magic should be used sparingly and not for a fool like me."

Mordred gave a soft laugh and Derek allowed himself to bathe in it, warming him from his cheeks to the very tips of his toes. Her fingers were cold beneath his own but she gripped onto him for dear life – another thing that made him smile, such as he always did in her presence.

"Here, let's get you cleaned up," she murmured, brushing the dust from his brow.

The peace of Derek's visit did not linger long, as was always the way for Mordred's life. These moments – Ana's laugh, Felix's dimples, a civil conversation with Justin and the touch of Derek's hand – they never did last long. They were but moments of clarity in an endless tempest. But there had once been a time when there was nothing but the thunder and the cloudy days, so Mordred counted her blessings every night when she went to sleep and every morning when she awoke.

One of the curses, today, however was dining with Lady Helen. A beautiful woman, no doubt, but one that she watched her husband ache for whenever she came to visit. Were they to have large, perky breasts and big, doe eyes – Justin was enthralled by them in a heartbeat. It was a fleeting fancy, however, there would be no time in between his next conquest and Mordred had come to terms with the fact that it would never be her that he would again court and chase after. No, their chase had ended with him tripping her up at the end.

"Will you sing for me?" her husband asked Lady Helen as they dined on warm duck and plum sauce.

Lady Helen was demure in everything she did as she carefully placed the silverware back onto the table and cleared her throat. "You will have to wait, Sire."

Justin leaned in close, his eyes darkening in that way that they did whenever he attempted to seduce Mordred. And oh, she recalled how she would melt beneath his gaze. "You will not deny me."

The words sent a sting of pain through Mordred's heart and she tightened her knuckles upon the bread that she was idly picking at.

"I am saving myself for the performance," Lady Helen said. "Will everyone be there?"

"Who would dare to miss it?" Mordred muttered, earning a glower from the King.

"How about your children?" Lady Helen asked.

"Well.." Mordred began, knowing well enough that singing didn't interest Felix unless it was her own voice and Ana was distant of late. No doubt still shaken by the execution that passed only a few days ago.

"Of course they will be," Justin interceded, shaking his head at the Queen.

"Poor children," Lady Helen mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Mordred asked.

"I mean – for what happened to the young prince," Lady Helen continued but there was a twinge of dishonesty in her tone. "It must have been difficult. To have lost a brother at such a young age.

"It hasn't been easy," Justin admitted and it was the first sense of humanity that Mordred had seen within him for a long while. Isaac dying had been a bitter pill to swallow and one they didn't often try to remember. "Though, Felix was only a child himself and doesn't remember it. Anastasia wasn't yet born. But we persevere."

"I'm sure," Lady Helen said through a soft, comforting smile. Mordred wanted to pry it off with the prongs of her fork and serve it to Justin. "Perhaps you will fall pregnant again, my Lady."

Mordred scoffed, chewing on a fatty piece of meat. "It's too late for that."

"Yes," Lady Helen agreed. "It certainly is too late for all of you." The smile she wore sent shivers down Mordred's spine.

That night, she couldn't sleep. Lady Helen's words churned around and around in her head for God, they sounded more like a threat than if she had actually put a knife to her throat. But in all the time that she had visited, she had been nothing but caring and gentle. Yet Mordred knew the power that came with pretending to be a delicate flower when in reality, you were a dagger in the dark. She would not allow any of her family – even Justin – to fall to such a fate. Though, she knew that she would not be of any use if she had not slept so she forced herself to close her eyes and let the dregs of sleep drag her to the shadows.

"Mordred…" a voice whispered – it was more of a growl than anything and she didn't recognise it. But still, it was enough to cause her to sit up in her bed. She peered all around and save for the candleberries, she was alone. She liked it that way at night. "Mordred…"

Lithe fingers reached down to tug the covers from her body and she wrapped a robe around her frame before making her way from her chambers. With a simple spell, she lit an empty torch and followed the sound of the voice until it was a shout. She descended her way down the dungeon steps and took a turning that she had never noticed before. She followed the path, dark and damp, until she found the mouth of a cave yawning at her and beckoning her within.

Despite her better nature, she entered.

"Mordred…" the voice spoke once more, a low laugh causing it to echo.

"Where are you?" Mordred called, feeling vulnerable in her nightgown.

Even more so when a great beast inclined from the roof of the cave, wings like a hurricane disturbing the air all around them and causing her skirts to ripple. He landed and Mordred barely suppressed the gasp that rose in her throat. Thick, black scales smiled back at her, catching the light in beautiful ways as if they were made of jewels. They looked enticing, as if you could touch them but then her eyes caught sight of the sharp talon-like claws at the end of a foot that was the size of three Knights of Camelot. She continued her ogling up towards his eyes and found herself staring back into bright yellow orbs – like twin suns trapped above his nose, which flared and dribbled smoke at the end.

"I am here," he greeted – as if she could have missed him. "My, how small you are for so great a destiny."

"What do you mean?" she asked, commanding all regality to return to her voice. "What destiny?"

"Your gift, Mordred, was given to you for a reason."

"Go on." For she had assumed as much.

"Your family have a firmer stronghold in this world's future than you could imagine," he informed and Mordred was reminded of fortune tellers who would turn false tarot cards and promise you all riches – so long as you paid them in advance. "But they face many threats from friend and foe alike. Without you – there will never be an Albion."

Albion – the perfect Kingdom. Tales often spoke of it in the prophecies – her Father had taught her back at the Druid camp. But that had been an age ago and Mordred had given up the promise of Albion's fortune ever coming to light.

But before she could ask any more questions, the Dragon had taken flight and had been swallowed by the shadows once more. "Wait! Wait, stop – I need to know more!"

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning when Stiles awoke, his back was stiff and he wanted nothing more than to sink into the mattress and let it embrace him with a mixture of downs and cotton. But it didn't – all he did was fall deeper into it as his Father hit him with a cushion to wake him up. He told him that Deaton was there and Stiles barely swallowed the moan that parted from his lips. Only the second day under his employment and the boy felt as if he was being exposed to slave labour – who did Deaton get to be his lapdog before Stiles turned up?

Still, when Deaton notified him that he was to visit the Princess' chambers ( - she'd been suffering from nightmares, poor girl - ) Stiles couldn't get out of the room quick enough. Which didn't go unnoticed by the men waiting inside of their chambers if the muffled titters were anything to go by.

He remembered the way to her chambers soon enough and made his way up the winding stairs to her chambers before knocking lightly upon the door. When there was no answer, he stepped in, slumping some that he must have missed her.

"My lady?" he called.

But his mouth dropped open as he saw her – a vision in blue silk and long, swirling locks of midnight hair. She was holding a gown up to herself before she haphazardly threw it behind her until it landed upon her bed. Before he could make his company known – she was moving behind the changing screen.

The Princess was changing and he was in the room.

"You know," her voice came, startling him so that his heart stuttered. "I've been thinking about feigning sickness tonight. Father says there'll be eligible bachelors there, though I doubt I'd touch any of them with a lancepole." She paused. "Pass me that dress, will you, Mama?"

…Mama? Oh, Gods. She thought -

Still, Stiles wasn't about to let himself be discovered so silently, he made his way over to the discarded dress upon her bed. He heard the unfastening of corset laces and stifled his gasp of fear? Anticipation? – as he watched her drop the top of her dress from her shoulders through the slats of the screen.

"I mean, 'eligible' by Father's definition normally means jouster," Ana continued – obviously steeped in the idea that it was her Mother in the room and not a simple serving boy. "And just because I'm the Princess doesn't mean I have to indulge their fantasties, does it?"

Stiles snuck over to the screen and placed the dress over the top in time for her to take it.

"Well, does it?" Ana prompted once more, sounding irked.

What do you do, Stiles? What do you do? "…Mm-mm," he hummed, as high-pitched as he could. He only hoped that it passed for the Queen's hum.

"If Father wants me to go, then he'll have to wait until I find someone that I want to take," Ana continued and for a moment – even though he was sure he was going to die at any second – Stiles couldn't help but admire her. Most of the women in his village would be fawning at the prospect of princes and nobles vying for their hands but Ana seemed almost disgusted by it. "So, do you know what that means?"

Another prompt. Great. "Mm-mm."

Ana paused, head snapping over the top of the screen. "Where are you?"

Stiles had the sense to lift up a cloak that was hanging on the screen to shield his face. "Here!" he spoke, voice rising an octave. He lowered it just enough to be able to see her through the neck of the collar and he sighed out like a poet finishing his final and best sonnet. She was a beauty.

"It means I'm going by myself," Ana finished.

Good, thought Stiles.

"I need some help with this fastening," Ana said and Stiles almost fell to the floor then. Hiding behind the screen, pretending to have a girl's voice, he could manage. Moving around the screen and fastening the Princess' dress without getting his head bitten off? Most likely by her? It seemed unlikely.

"Mama?"

"…I'm here," came a confused voice and Stiles breathed out as he heard the Queen enter. Stiles pivoted around to face her and gave a soft bow. "What are you doing here?" she mouthed.

Stiles merely flapped his hands around before running out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. Camelot : the Kingdom of near-death experiences.

The night of the banquet was soon upon them and Stiles shined himself up as much as he could though that was difficult for a person of limited means such as he. He could adjust his hair as much as he liked, brush down any lint or hay from his clothes but all the same – all he looked like was a serving boy. That was the way it was supposed to be, however, as his Father so swiftly reminded him. He was not a guest, he was the service; he was there to ensure that everyone had the best night and they would if he had anything to do with it. This business – if it could be called that – was based upon reward and merit. His Father, after all, had started as the Mad King's servant and he had progressed to Captain of the Guard through loyal service. Stiles had always believed him to be a fool for disregarding his family in lieu of promotion; but he could see the incentive in it now.

He didn't want to be a Captain or a Knight like his Father – especially not if it turned you into people like Sir Derek. But doing something worthwhile? Yes, that was certainly something he could aspire to.

Serving the monarchy seemed just that.

Stiles entered the banquet hall with his Father and Deaton neighbouring him and a few nods were passed on towards people that he had exchanged pleasantries with but there was nobody yet that he could say were his friends. Perhaps servants weren't allowed them and that was why everyone else had been so silent and unwilling to socialise. The closest person he had to a friend was the Queen and he knew that was stupid; she was the monarch, the jewel in the crown of Camelot and he was but a fleck of dust upon it.

But when she arrived, she spared him a wave and it caused him to preen.

Perhaps servants could be friends with Queens.

But when he saw who was entering behind her, he couldn't help but hope that the same would apply to servants and Princesses. All eyes turned to Princess Anastasia as she glided in. Her makeup was impeccable, rouge coating her cheeks and lipstick heavy upon plump, heart-shaped lips. Her eyelashes were long and her hair was tucked up into a loose bun that hung carelessly around her shoulders. Upon her head, she wore her crown – a smaller one than her Mother's, to show her status but it was beautiful and golden. And her dress – which Stiles didn't recognise from earlier – was as red as her lips. Around her curved waist, a belt of embellished leaves pulled the whole ensemble together and from the half-smile upon her lips, the Princess knew just what sort of entrance she had made.

"God have mercy…" Stiles muttered as his eyes drank her in.

Her elegant stride continued as she walked past him, eyes catching his for a moment and Stiles almost fell to his knees there but instead he just gawped at her.

His Father brought him to reality and reached over, hinging his jaw shut with one touch of his finger. Stiles thought he would be in trouble but his Father merely chuckled, the sound warm.

"Remember you're here to work, son," he chastised, clapping him upon the back.

"Oh, yeah," Stiles laughed, cheeks reddening – but he couldn't take his eyes off of the Princess. Perhaps he could find some way to speak to her before the night was out. And his opportunity arose as the head of the servants placed a silver platter of gold-flecked goblets of wine within his hand. The smell itself was intoxicating and Stiles was tempted to take a sip but he restrained himself, offering the drinks to the various guests that scattered the hall. He couldn't place a name to any of them.

"Thank the stars," a voice came from behind him, lilted and a pale hand filigreed with jewelled rings plucked a goblet from the plate. "I'm going to need more of these if I'm forced to speak with these people anymore," the Princess continued before she took a vigorous mouthful of the liquid. "So keep them coming."

Stiles barely repressed the laugh that rose within him. "As you wish, Your Highness."

"I'm not the Queen," Anastasia chided, shaking her head. "My lady will do."

"…My lady," Stiles continued, giving a slight incline of his head. "I hope it isn't too bold to say – but you look beautiful."

Ana paused, staring at him for a moment before she returned her attention to the goblet. "I'm aware," she spoke, fingers tapping the edge of it. "I wanted to give everyone a night to remember. After all, this shall be the first and the last time that these suitors will lay eyes upon me." She seemed to remember herself and who she was speaking to and withdrew into herself, a slight blush tainting her cheeks. Stiles wanted to kiss it. "I shouldn't be saying this to you. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to be forgiven, my lady."

"- I know who you are," she said after a brief moment of silence. "You're John's son." Another pause fell before she laughed, pointing at him around her glass. "You were the one that beat Sir Derek."

"Please, my lady, I didn't beat him."

"You crushed his ego and I would count that as a victory," Ana continued, taking a final sip of her goblet before she took another from him. "You're the talk of the Castle."

Stiles held out his hand. "Then I suppose we'd better be formally introduced. Stiles, if it please my lady."

"And if it didn't?" she questioned, slipping her hand into his. "Would you change it?"

"In a heartbeat," Stiles said through a smile and it earned him another laugh before he pressed his lips to her knuckles. "I hope you enjoy your evening, my lady."

"I doubt I will but I'm glad one of us has hope."

And then she was gone. As if she had never came.

The hall was filled with nothing more than indolent chatter and boisterous laughter coming from the huddle of Knights in the corner. Stiles opted to steer clear of them – especially Sir Derek but he often found more than a few pairs of eyes landing upon him. Perhaps Ana was right – perhaps people were talking about him more than he had thought. All publicity was good publicity, wasn't it?

He couldn't help but think about what his Mother would think if she knew that he already had the repute of someone who had beat a Knight with nothing more than his wit.

"If you could all be seated," the King's voice boomed across the hall and everyone scurried to their seats – the monarchy all settled alongside their King and silence fell. "We have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity. It has brought the kingdom and myself many pleasures, but few can compare with the honour of introducing Lady Helen of Mora."

A round of applause shook the hall. Lady Helen was a vision in sunflower yellow and her hair was pinned with silver butterflies. If Stiles hadn't blinked, he would have said with resolute certainty that the Queen had rolled her eyes.

Ana, too.

And roll her eyes, Mordred had. She had watched Lady Helen parade herself around her husband the past few days – had watched her even try to weasel her way into her children's affections but Ana had dealt her with some passing comment about how nightingales squawked outside her window so she had no idea why they had associated her voice with it. And Felix had merely shook her hand – no kiss would be placed – and made way to his Mother. Mordred had been glad that even if she did not have the allegiance of her husband, she did of her children.

Lady Helen's song awakened Mordred to reality and she listened in surprising bliss to the melody – it was like a lullaby. Enough so that she felt herself begin to drift off before she had the wits to catch herself. Her head snapped up and as she looked around them, everyone was falling to sleep.

"Justin. Justin, what are you doing?" she whispered, trying to shake her husband awake before she felt the pull of sleep tug at her once more. It was - it was a spell. Her hands clamped down upon her ears before she could fall asleep and the moment that she couldn't hear Lady Helen's voice, the urge of slumber fell away. Her eyes darted towards Lady Helen who was stepping closer towards the head table – her gaze directed upon the Prince and Princess. Her hands were extended either side of her before one reached into her elongated sleeve and drew forth a dagger. Her song reached an elaborate, dramatic crescendo as she raised her hand, aiming the dagger towards Felix.

"No!" Mordred screamed, eyes aglow as magic roused within her veins. Her eyes lifted to the chandelier hovering above Lady Helen and she willed the chain to rattle, untangle and fall upon the death singer. And, though her magic use was unrehearsed, it did, crushing the Lady beneath it. The force of it was enough to cause the charm that the Lady had been up keeping to fall away – and revealed before them was Mary Collins, the Mother of the boy who had been executed earlier in the week. Despite herself, Mordred felt pity.

All around her, everyone began to wake and stutter – some shrieked as they saw the woman beneath the chandelier.

"Are you alright?" Justin demanded, grasping Mordred's hands tight within his own.

"I'm fine," she promised, giving his a squeeze in return. "Children?" she called, watching as Felix and Ana awoke, blinking away sleep. Ana no doubt muttered an expletive. "Are you alright?"

"My lady, watch out!" John called from across the room as Mary rose as much as she could beneath her prison, raising the dagger and throwing it towards Felix.

"Felix!" Mordred cried.

Before anyone could reach him, however, Stiles had grasped his shoulders and dragged him down to the floor – leaving the dagger to embed itself within the wood of his chair. Everyone's eyes shot to Mary who had finally died, hand dropping to the floor.

Justin rushed over to Stiles, clasping his hand down upon his shoulder. "You saved my son's life. A debt must be repaid."

"Oh, well…" Stiles trailed off, looking abashed.

"Don't be so modest," Justin insisted. "You must be rewarded."

"No, honestly, you don't have to, Your Highness," Stiles promised.

"No, absolutely," Mordred stepped in, wrapping her hand around Justin's arm. She felt him soften beneath her and she knew he was smiling without looking. "This merits something quite special."

"Well…" Stiles pried for time.

"You shall be rewarded a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Felix's manservant," Justin continued, placing his hand over Mordred's own.

The pride upon both of the Stilinski men's faces was enough to cause tears to well in Mordred's eyes. There was something about the boy – a touch of destiny and wonder about him that Mordred couldn't shake. He would be a welcome addition to the household – and if the smiles upon Felix and Ana's faces were anything to go by, it was clear that they felt the same.