At first, it was only a shift in tone.
Uther Pendragon, once the calm center of a storm, began to crack around the edges. His voice, once measured as a drawn bowstring, now snapped like it had been left too long in the rain. Servants whispered it was stress, generals blamed sleeplessness. But late at night, when the castle torches burned low, the truth was harder to ignore. The king argued with someone who was not there. Guards outside his chamber learned not to flinch when his voice rose. His voice was pleading one moment, snarling the next. No second voice ever answered, yet the red glow beneath his door pulsed like a heartbeat, and it never, ever went out.
During autumn's last feast, the air tasted of iron and smoke. Uther slammed his goblet against the war table, wine spraying across maps and armor, dripping like fresh blood. "I said double the patrols along the eastern border," he roared, "not thin the line like a butcher carving scraps!"
The young captain knelt, trembling. "Sire...I misunderstood."
"Then you misunderstood your duty."
Silence suffocated the hall. The king did not reach for the throne or his council. He reached for the sword. The gemstone embedded in its crossguard pulsed slow, patient and hungry. Servants bowed so deeply their foreheads touched stone. No one dared breathe until the king looked away.
Outside the chamber after everyone departed, Arthur and Mordred crouched in the shadows of the doorway. They learned how to listen without being seen. Inside, Uther's voice trembled, not with anger, but with fear. "You healed me. I have given you battles. I have given you blood. Tell me what you want," he whispered. No reply, only the sound of his breathing.
Arthur swallowed. "He's tired, that's all. The court pushes him. The realm clings to him."
Mordred said nothing. He remembered when fire was only warmth.
Months later, the king ordered a feast on a night when no lord had been summoned. The tables sagged with meat no one touched. The torches burned too hot, throwing long, shivering shadows. Uther drank alone at the high seat. "To Albion!" he roared. "To victories none of you had the courage to earn!"
No one answered.
Music started, quavering. "Louder," he snarled. "Do you hear me? LOUDER!" The minstrels played until their fingers bled.
When the captain of the guard stepped forward to steady him, Uther struck him across the face. The hall froze. The captain hesitated only a moment but that was enough. Uther drew the sword. The blade did not shine, it burned. Three brutal strokes and the captain fell. The jeweled hilt pulsed in rhythm with Uther's heartbeat.
Red.
Red.
Red.
Uther dragged the man's body to the feasting table, calling for more wine, laughing like a man who had finally found something worth worshiping. No one moved or spoke. The court only watched and understood that their king had been healed, but not returned. That night, the servants scrubbed blood from the stone until dawn. The stain did not lift.
Arthur sat beside his brother outside the empty hall. "He will find himself again," Arthur said softly.
Mordred pulled his cloak tighter. The firelight flickered against his face, gentle and warm. Just like it once did.
"…What if he doesn't?" he whispered.
Arthur didn't answer.
The glow from Uther's chamber pulsed again.
Red.
Red.
Red.
Camelot one year later, Arthur and Mordred were now ten and nine. The world in frame but not yet in burden and Camelot began to rot from within. The king struck a noble across the mouth for daring to question his levy. He had a blacksmith imprisoned for murmuring about the coin tax. On cold nights, his screams echoed down the halls, cursing shadows no one else could see. The court walked lighter. Laughter died from the walls. Children no longer ran the corridors. Arthur and Mordred lingered more often at the edges of chambers, silent witnesses.
"He's worse," Mordred muttered one night after a feast ended in broken chairs and bloodied stewards.
Arthur said nothing. His eyes were elsewhere, toward the sword. Always toward the sword.
Later that year, the winter war council was gathered. Every general, advisor and a handful of knights. The discussion was calm at first, a veteran of Uther's first campaigns offered quiet counsel on the spring marches. Uther's rage was instant.
"You dare lecture me?!" he thundered, flipping the table. Maps scattered like leaves in a gale. "You worms forget who carved this kingdom from corpses!"
Knights tried to restrain him. He struck one across the face, sending him reeling. His eyes burned like coals, his fists clenched. The sword leaned against the throne, dull only for a heartbeat before the jewel flickered to life again, pulsing with his fury. Uther stormed from the chamber, his shouts echoing through the hall until only silence remained.
Arthur stood still while clenching his fists tight, staring at the sword left leaning against the throne. Mordred glanced at him, saw the look in his brother's eyes. And for the first time, Mordred felt fear. It was not of Uther this time, but of Arthur.