Arthur might already be gone. The thought rose, unbidden, and Vera stamped it out. They were in the Mages’ Cloak. Merlin was there. Gawain was there. Maybe … maybe it was an accident, and everything was fine. It could have been nothing.

Vera was lying to herself.

She and Lancelot ran harder than they’d ever run. He was a few steps ahead of her, constantly glancing over his shoulder. She was holding him back. “I can’t keep up with you,” Vera said between ragged breaths.

“Do you want me to slow—”

“No!” she cried. “Go! Go as fast as you can.”

“I can’t leave you,” he said.

“I’m fine. Just get there!”

Lancelot slowed to look at her. He hesitated for two breaths, calculating the risk. With one last glance at Vera, he took off at nearly double their pace. Good. He’d get there. He had to get there. And if he was there, it would all be okay.

Vera ran as fast as she could. These would be the fastest miles of her life if she’d been timing them, but they were also the longest. Her mind was a cloud of fear and dread, only worsening as she got closer.

It hadn’t just been one smoldering explosion. Fires burned in its wake. She was close enough to see flames consuming two of the tents, lapping at the silk now blackened by heat. The other three were already reduced to rubble. She couldn’t make out distinct faces from this distance, but through the smoke and her tears, she was nearly certain that some of the lumps on the ground were bodies. Vera’s world spun. Her feet pounded the ground so hard and fast that her lungs screamed for relief. She couldn’t stop, though.

She expected battle cries, sounds of clashing swords and commands being shouted … even wails of pain from the injured. But there was nothing, and it drove the spike of fear deeper into Vera’s heart. The crackle of fire might have been the merry sound of Bonfire Night, but today it was accompanied by the distinct stink of charred flesh. The air of camp was so clouded with dark plumes of smoke that she tripped and landed splayed out on her front, sucking in air. Her skin scorched, and some distant and reasonable part of her mind told her to move, that she must have landed on some debris that had burned down to hot coals. Vera rolled over. It was only grass next to her, but her skin blazed. In a daze, she lifted her head to see what she’d tripped over, and her heart stopped.

It was a body.

Her mind demanded precious seconds to determine that the face didn’t belong to Arthur, nor Merlin or Gawain. It was one of the soldiers, the younger of the two. His vacant and unseeing eyes stared back at her.

She was ashamed that relief flooded her first—that it wasn’t one of her friends. She’d never even learned his name. And now, he was gone. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This was a nightmare.

Oh God. Where was Lancelot? At the thought of him, her adrenaline surged. And where was Arthur?

The other soldier (why had she never even learned their names?) was dead in the grass not ten feet away. She didn’t see Lancelot or Gawain, but there was Merlin, standing and surveying the wreckage, blood up to his elbows on both arms, smeared across his cheek, dripping from a gash on his forehead, and splashed across the bottom half of his robe. A sword hung limply from one shaking hand as his mortified gaze fell on Vera.

“Where’s Arthur?” she demanded.

“Guinevere.” Merlin stumbled toward her. His hand shook as he bent to touch the soldier’s head, swallowing heavily. “I—he—”

“Where is he?” She screamed it.

Then she heard Lancelot. “Guinna!”

She spun around. Across what remained of their camp, Lancelot knelt on the ground next to another lump, another body. But it couldn’t be. It could not be Arthur. She tore toward him, forgetting to be frightened if enemies were among them because the impossible was materializing before her eyes.

Arthur, on his back on the ground. Lancelot pressed a cloth against his abdomen. Next to him, there was a pile of red fabric—Vera realized in horror that those hadn’t started red. They were used compresses. So many. So much blood.

Arthur’s eyes were only half-open.

“He’s—he’s asking for you,” Lancelot said, his face pale and shell-shocked.

Vera dropped to her knees. They flanked Arthur now, Lancelot on one side, Vera on his other.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she said, smoothing his hair back from his face. For the briefest moment, she was relieved to touch him and feel the force of his life humming through him. But it was short-lived, because this was very bad.

Arthur revived some at her touch and her voice, blinking up at her.

“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I’m here.”

He turned his face into her hand, and she thought he tried to kiss her palm, but he only had the energy to press his lips to her skin. Vera wept quietly. “It’s—it’s fine. It’s going to be fine.”

She looked up at Lancelot. He held the compress in place, but his face was awash with defeat. He met Vera’s hopeful, pleading gaze and shook his head minutely. Uneven trails streaked through the dirt and ash covering his face. He was crying, too, and Vera crumbled.

She heard Merlin approach from behind, frantically explaining. “It had to be—it couldn’t have been anyone else. It had to be a mage. I can’t believe they would—”

“Where’s Gawain?” Vera demanded, not a question. He could help. His healing could help.

“I—I don’t know.” Merlin’s eyes were wild. He was terrified.

Vera’s heart jumped. Merlin could fix Arthur. He’d fixed her, hadn’t he? “Save him,” she cried.

He stared at her blankly. “I can’t.”

Why didn’t he understand? “Do what you did to me.” She scrambled to her feet, grabbing at Merlin’s arms. “Save his essence. Do whatever you have to do!”

Merlin stumbled as if struck. “Guinevere!” He grabbed her wrists. “I cannot do it.”

“What do you mean? You did it to me. You saved me!”

“I didn’t!” he said. “It is not my power!”

Vera reeled back. What the fuck? He meant it. She wailed wordlessly, ripping her hands free and slamming her fists against his chest. “What are you good for!” she screamed. “Go back to the mages. Get someone who can help.” Her voice faltered into desperation. “Please!” she begged through a sob.

Merlin reached out a hand to comfort her, but she saw the pity in his eyes and wrenched away. “Go!” she screamed.

Vera didn’t watch to make sure he’d gone, but she heard the thunder of hooves fading as she spun back to Arthur and dropped down at his side. She was dizzy, nauseous, and in such physical agony from the pulsing fire on her skin.

Lancelot clutched Arthur’s hand and knelt with his face close to his.

“Get Vera to safety,” Arthur said in a strangled voice. “If you can get her home, do it. If you can’t—just …” He sucked in shallow breaths from the effort.

“I will,” Lancelot assured him through tears. “You know I will.”

Lancelot gripped Vera’s arm over Arthur’s chest, binding himself to her. She clung to him, too. Vera cupped Arthur’s face with her other hand like if she held it just right, his life wouldn’t slip away … water between her fingers.

She wanted to beg him not to die and let all the pain and burning and fear explode from her in desperate screams, but those could not be the last sounds Arthur heard. Vera wondered if he was afraid as he struggled to breathe and fought against the pain, his beautiful face drawn and clenching when the waves of it hit. She wanted him to know he was surrounded and loved.

It was all she could give him.

“You’re going to be okay,” Vera said. A lie and a prayer. She didn’t know what she was going to say until it was already out of her mouth. “We’ll go back to my Glastonbury together. I want you to meet my parents. My dad will love you.” Lancelot let out a strangled sob. She squeezed his arm more tightly. Tears streamed down her face.