Vera had so many questions to ask, but Gawain carried on, hardly pausing for a breath.

“Grady can now control the amount of moisture in the wood: he can ring it out like a wet cloth. He can also increase its porousness and absorption, compress any piece of wood, split it in two … If he continues to practice and hone the skill, I don’t see any reason why he won’t be able to shape and sculpt any wooden material as finely as a carver with a sharp knife.”

“That could be an impressive weapon,” Arthur said with a frown. “Shaping spearheads and having the power to send them flying through the air …”

“Hm,” Gawain said. “I hadn’t thought of that, Your Majesty.”

“What did you have in mind?” Vera asked.

He blushed and swallowed heavily. “Erm … very fine flutes.”

Collaborative creation guided Gawain’s every move, and the ripples from it crested into a tide that swept through Camelot. The town had never been a stronger community. And Vera and Arthur followed suit in ruling, which they very much did together.

Arthur held to the ideals he’d had since they formed the kingdom. His ultimate aim was for the power that came with lordship to not be based on riches and instead on merit. But the structure had already been built atop a foundation when the lords were made such because they had the money to fund building a kingdom. Altering course would be a slow process. Through many hours of idea sharing and discussion—even bringing in the other members of court and trusted townsfolk, they came up with a first step. They would create a new position of power. Akin to knighting a soldier who has performed beyond the highest standard of expectation, they would do something similar for citizens who served their local communities especially well, bestowing upon them the honor of town steward.

They wouldn’t rule their town. Instead, they would oversee the popular election of a local council. The lords could maintain their position of oversight while the crown discreetly dispersed more power to non “noble” folk.

Between ruling, jousting lessons, running with Lancelot (albeit less frequently), and training with the king’s guard, Vera grew stronger by the day. None of it happened as quickly as she would have hoped. She liked to arrive early to her sessions so she could catch the end of the proper king’s guard drills. She learned loads just from watching these men who had been fighting and training all their lives.

Arthur usually came to escort Vera to the training field, so he was never a part of the sparring matches. Today, though, Vera met with Randall before her lessons to be sized for her own armor. He worked especially quickly as she gushed about the perfect Yule gown he’d made her, and the attention made the armorer visibly uncomfortable. He hurried her out and led the way over to the training field, leaving her more time than usual to watch the king’s guard.

Each knight was recognizable by their armor’s variations or the small ways they’d personalized it. There were two soldiers locked into an intense sparring match. Vera recognized Lancelot’s form and shining helmet straight away, even from a distance, but it took her a second to realize that the fighter in the darker armor opposite was Arthur. She hurried to close the distance and stood next to Percival.

She’d only seen Arthur teaching before today, his pace slowed, but this was different. Damn, he was good at this: faster than his bulkier frame would indicate, strong, and very skilled. When both must have been exhausted after minutes of carrying on at top speed with heavy swords and cumbersome armor, there was an opening, and Arthur lunged a shoulder into Lancelot, sending him toppling onto his back. He pinned Lancelot’s sword arm to the ground with his knee and simultaneously thrust his sword into the dirt directly next to Lancelot’s face before rising without any fanfare and offering a hand down to his friend. Lancelot yelled a growl of frustration from the ground. He accepted Arthur’s hand to help him hop up and pulled his helmet off, already shaking his head as he grinned.

“Dammit!” he yelled, dropping his hands to his knees while he caught his breath. The rest of the king’s guard, who’d spent plenty of time being bested by Lancelot, were quick to pile on in good-natured ribbing. Arthur said nothing as he set his helmet aside, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Yes, well …” Lancelot tugged at his gloves, plucking them from his hands a finger at a time. “When you’ve watched a person fight their whole life like Arthur has with me, you’ve got a bit of a leg up.” He fixed them with a smug smile.

“Haven’t you watched him fight his whole life, too?” Vera asked slowly.

Wyatt, the oldest and also most enthusiastic member of the king’s guard, positively howled. Lancelot stared at her in stunned silence as Percival clapped him on the shoulder. Even Randall let out a full-bellied laugh.

Arthur looked at Vera appreciatively. “What’s that thing you and Lancelot do?” He took a few steps toward her and held up his hand for a high five.

“Now that is some horseshit!” Lancelot scrambled between them, grabbing Arthur by his upraised wrist and holding an arm out stiffly behind him to bodily keep Vera back. “That’s our thing, Arthur, and you can’t have it!”

The next two months were, unquestionably, some of the best days of Vera’s life. She had never been in a situation where she so constantly ran into people who knew her and wanted to talk with her. Whether it was Margaret from the kitchen, who was thrilled by Vera’s interest in available ingredients; Father John, who checked on her with somewhat regular frequency; townsfolk enjoying their queen’s attention; or one of her many friends.

Many friends … and more by the day as she grew closer with the members of the king’s guard. She wasn’t used to it and expected that any moment, she’d pass Percival, Wyatt, or any of the others on the road, and they’d see her as a stranger.

And then there were the evenings. One night, Arthur came back to their room after meetings to Vera and Matilda rolling with laughter amid a game of Never Have I Ever. He started making an excuse to give them privacy, only to have both shouting so emphatically that he couldn’t possibly understand a single word of what they were saying—and only by their excitement and gesticulation knew that they wanted him to stay. Two became three.

This lasted approximately two nights’ worth of gatherings before Lancelot got wind of it and showed up at the next one. It wasn’t long before they decided to move to the mostly unused chamber downstairs with a fireplace the size of a washroom and ample chairs and sofas for a proper party. At least once a week, all the local king’s guard and even Gawain with his lute in tow gathered in the big room (Vera’s name for it—but it stuck) to … hang out.

New buds adorned the trees every morning. The spring tournament was less than a week away, and the joust was all anyone in Camelot could think about.

“And all of our knights will be here,” Percival said one evening as they lounged in the big room in the comfiest seats pulled close to the fireplace in a semicircle. “The jousting tournament will be the largest it’s ever been.”

Gawain sat in the circle, strumming his lute and trying fruitlessly to teach Lancelot how to play. Even Randall stayed this evening, his head bent close to Matilda’s, listening intently with a dreamy smile as she told him a story. Vera grinned before she turned her attention back to Arthur and Percival, still on about the joust.

“You have a title to defend, don’t you?” Arthur asked. “Have you been preparing?”

Percival shrugged modestly. “I may not take the prize, but I’m confident I’ll put in a good showing.”

Arthur gave Vera a look as if he was considering something. He slid his hand onto hers as he said, “Guinevere’s been learning to joust.”