Hi :)

I really loved writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading!

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Things in Mercia were... quite strange.

They had been for a while, Tommy supposed, but they were especially strange recently.

The group of sorcerers his mentor, Malcolm, had introduced him to that one time? Telling him they were an elite group of magic users who could help Tommy in the future? Well, Malcolm hadn't been wrong, because they were basically in charge now, calling the shots from what used to be King William's castle. Minx, that woman with silver hair and a wild gaze that had intimidated the shit out of Tommy – she had the most power, giving orders from the throne.

But Tommy wasn't so happy with how she was running things. Sure, he was glad he could do magic more openly now; it made his chores a lot easier, for one thing, and he had impressed a few girls his age with some of his best tricks. But under the Circle, acceptance of those who could do magic was being matched with outright prejudice against anyone who couldn't. Nobles without magic had disappeared mysteriously, and good citizens were being removed from their positions, replaced by those loyal to the Circle.

Well, that didn't sit right with Tommy. His best friend, Tubbo, who worked in the kitchen in Lord Wilbur's castle, couldn't use magic, but that didn't make him any lesser than Tommy. Tommy didn't like the sudden special treatment he was getting from Circle members, and he especially didn't like how they talked to Tubbo, like he was useless or stupid or something.

He suspected Wilbur didn't much like the Circle, either, although they never talked about it. If Tommy brought it up, Lord Wilbur's eyes would go guarded and he'd change the topic right away.

But they couldn't avoid the conversation any longer when Tommy waltzed into Wilbur's chambers one day, holding the boots Wilbur had asked him to mend, and saw him helping a blond man wrap bandages around a bleeding stranger. The wounded man was hunched over, breathing heavily, and blood dripped from his hands, staining the wooden floor.

"Uh.... Wilbur?" Tommy asked, dropping the boots, and Wilbur looked up at him with a grimace.

"Tommy, lock the door, would you?" Wilbur asked.

Tommy turned around numbly, doing so as he heard the wounded stranger hiss in pain.

"Just relax, Techno," the blond man said.

Tommy's eyes widened as he looked at Wilbur. "What is going on right now?"

Handing the bandages off to the other man, Wilbur grabbed Tommy by his arm and dragged him a little bit away. "These are some... old friends of mine."

"Did that guy say Techno?" Tommy hissed. "As in, Technoblade?"

Wilbur winced. "Ah, well. Um..."

"He did," Tommy said, and then was struck with an even greater revelation. "You're friends with the Blade?!"

"Like I said," Wilbur said, glancing back. "Old friends. Our paths diverged a long time ago."

Tommy shook his head in astonishment. "Well, how the hell did he end up here?"

"It's a long story, and it's not important," Wilbur said with a sigh. "What is important is what he just told me. Tommy, Mercia is going to war with Camelot."

Tommy froze, dumbstruck. "Wh- what? But... why?"

"What other reason? Power," Wilbur said grimly. "The Circle wants to take over each of the Five Kingdoms, by force, if they have to. And these two idiot anarchists just assassinated King Daniel."

"They hired us, Wilbur," the blond man said, having overheard them.

"That doesn't mean you had to say yes, Phil," Wilbur snapped, and Phil shrugged.

"It was supposed to be fun," Technoblade said hoarsely, still folded halfway over.

Wilbur huffed in exasperation and turned back to Tommy, whose eyes were as large as dinner plates, information overloading his system. "Tommy, I know you have doubts, like I do, about what the Circle is doing to this kingdom. Phil and Techno just like to create chaos, but you and I – we don't have that luxury. We have people to think of. Everyone in this city is living under my protection. They're all going to be pulled into a violent, pointless war if we don't do something to stop it."

Tommy swallowed and drew himself up. "What do we do, Wilbur?"

Wilbur's mouth set into a grim line. He looked back at the two assassins sitting in his quarters. Phil was tying off Techno's bandages, whose breathing had evened out slightly, though his face was still pale, his long hair stained with blood.

"We bide our time, for now," Wilbur said. "But I want you to be ready. When the moment is right, we'll act. And these idiots are going to help undo the damage they've caused."

"You don't tell me what to do," the Blade muttered.

"You owe me, Techno," Wilbur said pointedly, and the assassin rolled his eyes.

"He's not wrong," Phil said, smacking Techno lightly over the head. "You'd be dead if it weren't for him. We'll help you," he said to Wilbur. "Whatever you need."

"Fine," Technoblade gritted. "But if I see that royal asshole again, I'm not makin' any promises."

"Clay's the king, now," Wilbur said, and Tommy remembered, with surprise, that prince from Camelot he had met a few years ago – his servant, who he had befriended at the Tournament. He shifted his weight from foot to foot in excitement as Wilbur murmured, "I wonder what he'll do."

"Wilbur," Tommy burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "I think I have an idea."

If Clay had ever grown tired of hearing the words Prince Clay, he was already a thousand times sicker of King Clay. Only a week into his reign, he felt he had been called by the latter title more times than he had in twenty years of the former.

It wasn't so much the name itself that bothered him as the way it was being used: to wheedle, to flatter, to coerce. He could see it in the faces of so many of the people who came to him. Everyone who spoke to him wanted something from him, and it was growing more and more difficult to tell who had good intentions and who was just being manipulative.

An aide, bowing in formalistic deference: "King Clay, do you intend to keep the same heads of estate? I have some suggestions, if you don't mind..."

A blacksmith, twice his age: "King Clay, we're in need of more help in the armory, may we pull extra hands from the kitchens?"

A knight, spreading his hands over an enormous map: "King Clay, who should take control of the patrols of the outer villages?"

A nobleman, masking fear under a veneer of importance: "King Clay, we need more troops deployed to my fiefdom. We have the kingdom's most important supply of grain, after all."

Each face, each request, a puzzle, a balancing act. Clay responded to each in turn, monitoring his tone, monitoring his words, monitoring his decisions, making sure he acted fairly and spoke with confidence, projecting the image of a competent leader that his people needed as Camelot marched steadily towards war.

It was completely and utterly exhausting.

The only people he felt truly safe around these days were Sapnap, Bad, and George, of course – and those were exactly the people who surrounded him as he stood in the Great Hall on the evening of his seventh night as king, staring, once more, at the map of Camelot that was spread out on the table. It was sprinkled with marks – signifiers of conflict. Mercia had continued their sporadic attacks on Camelot villages, seemingly at random. The assaults had only grown more frequent.

And Camelot had lost every single battle.

"We need to find a way to predict their next move," Bad was saying, peering at the map through his glasses. "If we can intercept them before they start attacking, maybe we can gain the element of surprise."

"It doesn't even matter, though," Clay said, his brow furrowed in frustration. "As long as they have this endless army of sorcerers on their side, we're guaranteed to lose every fight."

"The knights have been getting better at learning how to combat magic," George said. Clay had been inviting him to most of these meetings, giving him more informal responsibility. Although it drew some raised eyebrows from his father's former advisors, Clay couldn't care less. He trusted George's judgement implicitly. "And Excalibur will help, too."

"Yes, but I can't be everywhere," Clay said. Agitated, he knocked his knuckles against the table a few times. "I'm finally starting to see what my father meant when he warned me about the danger of magic. This is... this is starting to look like a losing battle."

Sapnap's mouth was set in a grim line, and he absently touched a scar along his jaw he had earned in his most recent skirmish with Mercian sorcerers. "Well... is there a way we can fight back using magic, too? Fight fire with fire?"

"No way, Sapnap," Clay said, shooting him a look.

"Why not?"

"I might as well just go trample all over my father's grave," he said, and it was harsh, but true.

Sapnap flinched. "Come on, Clay. You disagreed with Daniel about this stuff all the time."

"Yeah, and then a sorcerer killed him, and another one tried to assassinate me," Clay snapped. "So. Guess who was probably right."

It was more complicated than that, and Clay knew it, and didn't miss the way George's face kind of fell at his words, drudging up old memories.

Clay felt a guilty pang in his chest, but shoved it down. Daniel hadn't been perfect... but he had always kept Camelot safe. And Clay couldn't help but feel, with a twist of fear in his stomach, that he was already starting to fail in that regard.

The strained moment was interrupted by the sound of the doors opening, and the four men turned to see the royal guard escorting somebody in. It was an unexpected visit, and King Clay pulled himself up, walking around the table to meet the newcomer.

The stranger was dressed in finely tailored noblemen's clothing. He had a dark beard and bright, focused eyes, and he seemed to carry no weapons. As he reached Clay, he bowed deferentially.

"Your Highness," he said. His voice had a measured tone to it. "I am your humble servant."

"Who are you? Where do you hail from?" Clay asked.

The man rose. "My name is Schlatt. I come from Nemeth."

Sapnap snorted from behind Clay. "Strange name."

Schlatt's eyes narrowed slightly at the knight. "I could say the same to you," he said lightly, "Sir Snapnap, was it?"

Clay felt Sapnap bristle behind him, but ignored the little exchange. "What is your purpose in Camelot?" he asked.

Schlatt turned back to Clay. "Your Highness, I come with news of an impending attack. An attack from Mercia."

Clay clenched his jaw. "I thought Nemeth was unwilling to help us in this war." It had been a sharp blow. Nemeth was Camelot's closest ally, yet they had closed their doors to Clay entirely.

"Nemeth might be," Schlatt shrugged, "but I'm not. I see what these magic users are doing to Mercia. They're trying to take over. First Camelot, next the world, right? Well, frankly, I'm not interested."

Clay narrowed his eyes. There was something strange about the man, something he couldn't quite place. He had this disarming, casual air about him, and there was an undercurrent of danger in the way he acted; he was clearly intelligent, capable, and his gaze was sharp. Yet he hadn't done anything to disrespect Clay – and certainly hadn't made any threats. "How do you know about this attack?"

"I've been seeing troops mobilizing on the border near Nemeth. Went and talked to a few soldiers, just to see what was up. Turns out, they're plannin' on attacking Whiteacre. Two days from now."

The name nearly punched the breath out of Clay. Whiteacre was one of Camelot's most important strongholds, a major city close to the kingdom's border, and an important source of food for the entire country. An attack on Whiteacre would be disastrous.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, and Schlatt nodded firmly.

"Listen," he said. "I'll be upfront with you. I can lead you to their camp tomorrow, if you want. But I'm not doin' this out of charity."

"You'll be paid well, if what you say is true," Clay said, and Schlatt dipped his head.

"King Clay," he heard George say, and when he turned around, George's forehead was furrowed. "Can we talk about this?"

Clay hesitated, then turned back towards Schlatt. "Give us a few minutes."

Schlatt's gaze had landed appraisingly on George, but slid smoothly back to Clay. "Of course," he said, and followed the guards out of the Hall.

As the doors closed heavily, Clay turned back towards the table. "Well. What do you guys think?"

Bad hesitated. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. "I don't know. It's hard to tell."

"Whiteacre makes sense as Mercia's next target," Sapnap said, tapping his fingers against the table. "I mean, it's believable."

"What do you think?" Clay asked George, whose face was still clouded.

George pressed his lips into a thin line. "I don't know, Dream," he said honestly. "I... I don't think I like this guy."

"Neither do I," Clay said. His newly deepened sense of paranoia itched at him insistently. But Camelot needed an ally, desperately. "I mean... at least Schlatt is being honest about what he wants out of this whole thing. Weirdly, I can sort of respect that. If he wants to get paid, we'll pay him."

George shrugged, though he didn't look convinced.

"Listen, I'm not totally sold on this, either," Clay said. "But... do we have any other option? I mean... what happens if we ignore this, and Whiteacre is attacked?"

"We could just fortify the city," Bad suggested.

"Right, and then we'd lose, just like we've lost every other time," Clay said. "If we want any chance at winning, we need to catch them by surprise. That's what Schlatt is offering us."

The four stood in silence for a moment.

"It's up to you, Clay," Sapnap eventually said. "Whatever you decide, we'll be behind you."

And that was the problem, wasn't it? The responsibility would rest with him, ultimately. For the rest of his life.

The thought weighed as heavily on his head as his crown did as Clay paced around the table, sitting on the throne and rubbing his face, thinking.

This was a risk. But it was a risk that could lead to a victory. And Clay needed a win. His knights – his kingdom needed a win. They needed to know that victory was possible.

For a moment, Clay made eye contact with George, and his servant held his gaze. It was so different from the way other people looked at him these days. It wasn't disrespectful, but it wasn't fearful or fake, either. George was actually looking at him. At him. Not at King Clay. And he had that funny expression he got sometimes, that expression that left Clay's chest with a sort of burning ache. That expression – like George had full and total trust in Clay, no matter what.

"Fundy," Clay called out, and the knight, who was standing by the door, stepped forward. "Tell Schlatt that we'll take him up on his offer."

A few hours later, a fire was burning steadily in the hearth in Dream's room, and George stood by the dressers, arranging things for the journey tomorrow. His mind swirled as he worked, still trying to digest the events of the day. It was late, already hours after sundown, yet Dream hadn't returned to his quarters yet; he was busy making his own preparations.

George worried about him, and though that was nothing new, it had recently become especially justified. Dream had been saddled with so much, from the instant he became king – nearly unfathomable responsibility. He looked tired all the time, dark circles ringing his eyes. George suspected he wasn't sleeping well, if at all.

It made George's chest hurt. He wished there was something he could do to fix it. He wished he could be more of use in the war, but even with Sapnap's help prompting the idea, Dream had been more closed off to the thought of using magic than ever. There was even a part of him – however small – that wished he could have prevented, or at least delayed, Daniel's assassination. Because as much as George had hated the former king, Dream was obviously haunted by his ghost. He had even refused to move into the master bedroom, unable to face the place where his father had died.

But because he couldn't do either of those things, he just tried to do as much as he could to take things off of the king's shoulders. They were small things, usually, but that was meant to be his role as Clay's servant, anyway.

He heard the doors open and shut, and he looked up to see Dream leaning against the closed door, leaning his head back against it with a sigh. He looked utterly exhausted, lines wrinkling his forehead and the corners of his eyes.

"Are you hungry?" George asked.

Dream dropped his head and blinked blearily at George, as though he was just now noticing him. "Do you have food?"

George pointed at a small tray of bread and dried fruit on the table, and Dream sat down with a pleased sound. George closed the dresser doors, then walked towards him, hopping up to sit on the edge of the table, facing Dream. "How do you feel?"

Dream avoided his gaze. "I'm fine."

He was deflecting, and George narrowed his eyes. "You don't have to do that around me, you know."

"Do what?"

George lifted his shoulders briefly. "Act like everything is fine."

Dream paused, and then looked at him, and George held his gaze, his stomach sort of flipping under his stare. He had a strange expression on his face.

"I guess I don't, do I?" Dream eventually murmured. He dropped his face into his hands, sighing.

George waited expectantly. The fire filled the room with warm, orange light, and shadows danced lightly on the walls. Eventually, Dream let his hands fall against the table.

"George," he said with a short laugh. "Sometimes I feel like you're the only person who actually talks to me like I'm a real person. And not just... the king."