Arthur and Mordred were friends first. Morgana, Arthur’s younger sister, was more annoyance than acquaintance. But persistence won out, and as she grew from irritating little sister to intelligent young woman, Mordred, at least, saw the benefit of letting her tag along.

 

The trio found their fair share of trouble; Arthur, the young heir, with his knowledge of every passageway in Avalon; Mordred, his best friend and the fastest swordsman of his age; and Morgana, the spare. The princess, mostly ignored by her father, had found companionship in the form of the sorcerer Merlin. And Merlin was an adept teacher.

 

Soon, Morgana sloughed the title of princess, and took up the mantle of sorceress.

 

Over the years, their mischief-making shifted from pranks on the castle staff at Camelot, to the careful – and not so careful – scheming of educated nobles. More than once, Arthur and Mordred found themselves shoulder to shoulder, fighting off veil-dwellers; nasty little imps and scrabbling pixies with sharp claws. So-called hellhounds with glowing green eyes, jet black foxes the size of wolves, maws gaping, rows of teeth glistening… hoards, ready to rip the future king and his companion apart.

 

And then there was Morgana, spilling sweeping handfuls of glittering arcana over the slathering beasts, sending them scarpering as though burned. And while Arthur and Mordred checked each other over, inevitably surprised at their continued survival, Morgana only laughed.

 

They were inseparable; all but untouchable. They shared in each other’s triumphs, commiserated one another’s losses. Arthur conferred with them both on matters of politics and Morgana shared with them her latest arcane learnings. They were content, needing no one but each other.

 

But it couldn’t last.

 

When the king died, ceding the throne to Arthur, Morgana’s brother – Mordred’s friend – changed. He grew solemn under the weight of his crown, almost resentful. He spoke to Mordred as his knight, not his companion, and hardly acknowledged Morgana at all, preferring to turn to Merlin for his advice on the arcane, and the Wilds beyond the veil. 

 

Mordred, for his part, watched in sorrow from across a round table, said to represent equality. He watched as someone new took up the mantle of confidant, of second in command. He listened as Lancelot pushed for harsher restrictions on the fey worlds. He felt himself carried further from Arthur’s circle, and knew there was nothing he could do to find his way back. So he turned to Morgana, as Arthur grew more and more preoccupied with the fey accords.

 

Morgana, little sister turned sorceress, seethed at Arthur’s dismissal, furious as much for Mordred as herself. The inseparable trio splintered into a pair, and the pillar that was King Arthur. Mordred and Morgana grew closer.

 

It isn’t known if their friendship became more; they were hardly seen apart, until the day Arthur announced they were to march on the Veil. Morgana went to her brother, to implore him to see sense, but he only brushed her off. She begged him to let her accompany them, but again, he refused, telling her to stay behind in the castle. That Merlin would be watching the knights from his tower; he would keep them safe.

 

And so the king led his army from the safety of Camelot, to battle their tormentors beyond the veil.

 

Few returned. Those who did told of a betrayal before they breached the veil, of the king slaughtered, of Mordred struck down as a traitor. They told of ethereal monarchs arriving on the so-called battle field, sending knights of great standing to their deaths with barely the wave of a hand. Of howling, frenzied veil-dwellers tearing flesh and breaking bones. Of blood, and carnage, and terror.

 

A young knight by the name of Accolon mentioned glimpsing Morgana among the fray, glittering with golden arcana light, but no one seemed to hear or believe him. 

 

It wasn’t until many hours later, when Merlin came to her chambers to report the death of her brother, the king, that anyone realised she was gone.

 

And so the knights of the round table crumbled. That bright, riotous trio dissolved for the final time. The king of England was dead, and his young son was left to pick up the pieces. To build the treaties. To start reparations. And so, Camelot began to unravel.