She dipped into a poor curtsy, expecting that to be the end of it. But he kept his shadowy eyes on her like he was making a silent accusation.

“Why didn’t you come when summoned?” Arthur asked, his tone even as he cocked his head to the side.

“An unprecedented magical break happened right here yesterday.” Gawain dropped his face back to the ground, resuming his study of the ordinary-looking dirt. “Magic leaves a trace, but it doesn’t linger. I couldn’t afford to delay.”

Percival scoffed loudly.

“What are you hoping to find?” Arthur asked.

Gawain sighed and sat up, Arthur’s attention evidently an annoyance to him. “This is my area of study.”

“What? Dirt?” Percival shot back.

Gawain smiled, thick with condescension. “Patterns in what gifts show up and where. But most of all, how the magic break happens.”

“What’s a magic break?” Vera asked.

“The exact instant a person first exhibits their gift. I used to only study infants, but the war changed my mind.”

“Why?” Arthur said.

“Something I saw once.”

“What,” Percival pressed emphatically, “did you see?”

“An execution on the battlefield. Not just one, of course. I saw many, like both of you, I’m sure. But as the sword fell on his neck this time, I saw him have a magical break.”

The skin on the back of Vera’s neck prickled. “Did it look like a light exploded out of him?”

Gawain nodded. “Out of his chest. Is that what happened to the boy yesterday?”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw it. Arthur and I both saw it. Then Grady used it—his gift.”

“What was the man’s gift on the battlefield?” Percival’s annoyance had given way to genuine interest.

“No idea,” Gawain said. “He died.”

They stared at the mage, though Percival voiced their shared sentiment. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

He carried on as if Percival hadn’t said anything. “The soldier likely never even knew it happened. But the boy yesterday,” Gawain said. “Could either of you see his eyes when it happened?”

“I could,” Vera said.

“What did they look like?”

“Frightened.” She shuddered as she remembered Grady’s face, drawn with a horror that no fourteen-year-old should ever know.

“Panicked? Petrified? Desperate?” Gawain’s voice rose in excitement with each suggestion.

“Yes, of course. All of those things. He thought he was about to die.”

Gawain sat back on his heels as he sighed wistfully. “I wish I’d seen that.”

Vera recoiled. “That was the worst moment of his life.”

“Yes, but with all due respect, Your Majesty, he didn’t die and now has a very useful gift.” Gawain must have found what he was searching for on the ground as he procured a vial from the pocket of his robe and scooped it full of dirt before he turned his attention to Arthur. “And especially since I didn’t witness the event, it is imperative that I study the trace of what was left behind. It could not wait.”

“I understand,” Arthur said. Vera shot him a glare that he either did not notice or didn’t acknowledge. “But if you cannot meet a summons, I expect you to send word to explain your absence.”

“At the absolute least,” Percival added, though he clearly would have liked to say more.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Gawain said. “That was thoughtless on my part. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Arthur said.

“You were here yesterday when the incident occurred,” Gawain said. “Were you able to see the boy clearly?”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

“Tell me, in as much detail as you can, about the terror on his face.”

Vera decided she’d prefer not to know Gawain better, but as Arthur’s traveling party gathered mere hours later at the castle stables, it became clear she’d have trouble avoiding him. Like a misshapen piece pressed into an already completed puzzle, there Gawain was, standing at the edge of the cluster that buzzed with excitement, a bulging travel pack at his feet and his face sullen.

As they readied their horses, Percival and Lancelot led the festivities with a bottle of some amber liquor passed around amongst them. Beyond Arthur, Lancelot, Percival, and Matilda, just four other soldiers would accompany them. And Gawain. The soldiers each wore some variation of a dazed expression, gleeful disbelief at being fortunate enough to travel with the king’s party. Then, there were the few who came to see them off: Grady, his father, and Randall.

As Grady and his father ensured the horses and tack were suitable for the journey, Lancelot bawdily encouraged Grady to show off his newfound gift. He started by sheepishly restacking a few sticks of firewood. His initial reluctance melted under the soldiers’ enthusiastic praise, and he was soon juggling the logs midair without physically touching a single one. Gawain inched closer, surely trying to sort out how to corner Grady and interrogate him on his recent trauma.

Randall, who reasserted that no, he was not attending the festival, hung close to Matilda. As she knocked back a hearty swig of the amber liquor and passed it along to him, his tension slackened, and he too grinned and took a drink.

Percival ambled toward Vera and Arthur, his eyes on Gawain. “Here, Your Majesty. This is the parcel from Merlin,” he said, offering a bag with some heft to it. Arthur’s eyes darkened on the package, but he accepted it and tucked it into his saddle bag.

“Why on earth does he think he should come?” Percival grumbled petulantly with a sharp nod toward Gawain, interrupting any notion Vera had to question the package from Merlin. Arthur glanced over at the mage before he tied his bag off and gracefully mounted his horse.

“Probably because I invited him,” he said.

Percival’s mouth fell open, but he caught himself and pursed his lips. He revered Arthur far too much to say anything aloud, though his face said plenty as he went back to his own horse. Vera rather shared his sentiment.

Arthur chuckled. “I invited Gawain to be polite,” he said when Percival was far enough not to hear. “I didn’t expect him to say yes.”

“Pardon me. Your Majesty?” Randall’s voice called out from behind her. Vera continued securing her bag on her horse. Randall cleared his throat. Apparently oblivious, Arthur was pulling on his riding gloves until he noticed Vera eyeing him.

“He means you,” Arthur said with a one-sided grin.

“Me?”

The grin spread to both sides as he nodded.

“Your Majesty, may I have a moment?” Randall said, and Vera whipped around to face him this time.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you meant the king.”

Randall didn’t answer. He shifted the bulk of his weight from one foot to the other. “I gave Matilda something for you, in case you want it.” Then, after another pause, he said, “Do you have a gown for tomorrow’s celebration?”

“I brought one I like.” It was the red one with the wide sleeves.

“It’s a dress from before?” Randall asked. It took Vera a moment to realize what he meant; from before the accident. Before she’d been “away” for a year (and an entire existence).

“Yes,” she said.

“You should have a garment other than your training gear that’s been made for you, Your Majesty. I’ve made you a gown. You don’t have to wear it,” he added quickly. “But you should have the option.”

“Of course I’ll wear it,” Vera said quietly.

Randall’s blush crept above his whiskers. “Only if it suits you.”

“Randall, you’ve been so kind to me. Thank you.” Vera would have liked to hug him, but he didn’t give her the chance.

He nodded to her and bowed to Arthur. “Safe travels, my liege. Happy Yule, happy Christmas, happy whatever the hell we’re celebrating now. We’ll make sure Camelot doesn’t go to shit while you’re away.”

The celebrations continued once the party set off. It wasn’t a quiet ride by any means. Chatter was abundant as they traveled in clumps, sharing their excitement by retelling stories from previous Yule festivals.