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There was shouting in the town square. A war party, coming through on their way back to the castle. But this one seemed different from the others.

Tommy and Tubbo paused on the side of the street, watching the Mercian soldiers and sorcerers walk by, waving triumphantly at the citizens of Wilbur's city.

"What's going on?" Tommy asked a passing soldier.

The man grinned broadly. "We sent the King of Camelot packing," he said, "and we've captured his sorcerer!"

Tommy's eyes widened, and he pushed forward through the crowd a little, even as Tubbo protested from behind him. He needed to see, needed to know if it was really –

He broke through the front of the crowd and, in the middle of the war party, he saw two soldiers carrying an unconscious man between them, his feet dragging in the dirt. The man was passed out cold, his head lolling to the side, and he was bleeding, badly, from a wound across his chest. He looked like shit, knocked out and beat-up and familiar, and Tommy clenched his jaw.

"George," he muttered.

"Tommy," he heard Tubbo say, grabbing his hand from behind. "Tommy, we've got to go."

Tommy took one last look at George, who looked so small and fragile, and then he nodded, turning around and following Tubbo back through the crowd and towards the castle. As they went, he explained to Tubbo, in a low, hushed voice, what he had seen, and what it meant.

He needed to talk to Wilbur.

Clay had never been more purely relieved to see Sapnap than he was when he entered the Great Hall to see him battered, but alive, and he suspected the feeling was mutual.

"Clay," Sapnap shouted, running towards him and practically tackling him in a hug. Bad wasn't too far behind. Clay looked disheveled compared to them, having limped directly into the Hall still wearing his dirty, dinted battle armor, while they were in their usual day clothes. They were the only two people around; Clay wondered if they had been talking, strategizing about what to do if he hadn't returned.

The happy reunion didn't last long. As Clay was embracing Bad, he saw Sapnap's face fall, the knight searching for someone who wasn't behind him.

"Clay," Sapnap said urgently as Clay and Bad broke apart. "Where's George?"

Clay hesitated.

Bad's hand flew over his mouth. "Oh, God – is he... is he gone?" he asked, his eyes suddenly welling up with tears.

Once again, the scene replayed in Clay's mind. The last he had seen of George, he was being swarmed with Mercians, but they weren't trying to kill him. They had forced him to the ground – restrained him.

(George had told him to run. He had told him to run, so that's what Clay did. He couldn't be blamed for that. He couldn't be blamed for the way they had bashed the handle of a sword into his head, even when he was already pinned to the ground --)

"He's alive," he made himself say, and Sapnap exhaled shakily as Bad's shoulders slumped. "But he's been captured by the Mercians."

Bad furrowed his brow. "Captured?" he echoed. "Why would the Mercians want to kidnap George?"

"Who cares?" Sapnap said impatiently, suddenly set on edge. "All that's important is getting him back. If we leave tonight, we could be in Mercia tomorrow. Or we could send a message to their castle-,"

"Stop," Clay said, holding up a hand. His stomach lurched to think about what he had to tell them. "There's... there's something you need to know about George."

He pushed past his friends and walked towards the table in the middle of the hall, placing his helmet down with a solid thud on the surface of the oak, and then pacing around to the other side, his thoughts swirling. Once he was standing opposite Sapnap and Bad, he stopped, looking up directly into their confused expressions.

"George is a sorcerer," he said.

There was a moment of shocked, frozen silence before Bad took a small step back, putting an agitated hand on the side of his head. "What?" he asked. "How... how do you know?"

"I saw it with my own eyes," Clay said, feeling that familiar heatwave of betrayal rise up in his chest. "He's been lying to us for as long as we've known him. Since we were kids."

Sapnap just looked stoic. He was staring at Clay with a strange expression.

"Why would he hide that from us?" Bad asked, sounding genuinely hurt.

Clay lifted his shoulders once. "Good question."

Sapnap sighed and crossed his arms.

"Well," Bad said, still sounding put-off. He took his glasses off and put them back on. Then he said, "well. Okay. So... do you think he'll be able to get away by himself, then?"

"No way," Sapnap said, as Clay looked at Bad with a furrowed brow. "One magic user against, like, a million? He doesn't stand a chance. We still need to go back for him."

Bad nodded firmly. "Right. Well, let's think this through. Where are the places they could be holding him? My first instinct is the castle -,"

"I don't think you guys are getting it," Clay interrupted, his voice coming out harsh. He fought to keep control of himself as he spoke. "We're not going back for George. George is a traitor. He betrayed us."

His friends stared at him in stunned silence, but he elaborated no further, dropping his gaze to the table.

"Clay," Sapnap eventually said, and the patronizing tone of his voice immediately pissed Clay off. "You can't be serious."

"I'm completely serious."

"George is still our friend," Bad said. "We can't just -,"

"George lied to us," Clay snapped, his shoulders tensing. "What aren't you getting about this? He was manipulating us."

"Come on, man," Sapnap said angrily. "You think George has an inch of malice towards us in his entire body?"

"I don't know," Clay said, spreading out his arms. "Apparently, I don't know anything about him."

"Clay," Bad said in exasperation, as though Clay were the crazy one.

"Why wouldn't he have told me?" Clay exploded, his voice ringing in the Hall. "If he had good intentions, why wouldn't he have just told me? We told each other everything."

"Are you kidding me?" Sapnap said, his voice rising to match Clay's. "Clay, do you remember what you were like as a kid? Every third sentence, you talked about how much you hated magic."

"Remember when you used to call yourself the killer of sorcerers?" Bad asked uncomfortably.

"Remember when your dad literally executed hundreds of people for using magic?" Sapnap said. "Like – dude. Of course George wouldn't want to tell us! He probably thought we'd turn him over to Daniel. He could have been killed."

Clay's face stung as though he had been slapped. He – he knew he hadn't been very tolerant of magic, but - "I would have never hurt George," he insisted. "He must have known that."

"Maybe he didn't," Bad said softly.

Clay's mind was spinning, his thoughts short-circuiting, unable to understand why his friends were treating him like he was in the wrong. Like he was the bad guy. Sapnap and Bad had this all wrong, he knew that on a gut level, but his mind wasn't working right, wasn't giving him the words to defend the storm of anger and betrayal and hurt that was raging in his chest.

"You can't just abandon him like this," Sapnap said, his tone measured but clearly angry. "He's been helping you this whole time. He saved your life."

But there was something off about those words, something that made Clay look sharply at Sapnap. "How do you know that?" he said.

Sapnap's eyes widened slightly, and then his gaze slid towards the floor, and in the second of hesitation where he opened his mouth without saying anything, something clicked in Clay's head.

"Did you know?" he asked quietly.

Sapnap swallowed before making eye contact. "I – I did. Only for the past few days," he followed quickly, but Clay was already pushing away from the table.

"Get out," he said, turning his back.

"Clay, I saw him heal you. Technoblade killed you, and George saved your life," Sapnap argued behind him. "I'm not gonna let you -,"

"I said get out!" Clay exploded, whirling, seeing Sapnap's eyes widen as Bad shrunk back from the intensity of his outburst. "Both of you, leave."

"Clay -,"

"I am ordering you to get out of this room," the king shouted, his voice echoing.

Sapnap and Bad hesitated for a long moment, glancing at each other and their friend.

But they were subjects to King Clay, first and finally, and when Clay held his ground, Bad bowed his head shallowly and turned to leave, pulling Sapnap behind him. Sapnap's stare lingered on Clay for one second longer before he followed Bad out of the Hall.

As the door closed behind them, Clay sat down heavily in his throne. The silence in the room rang in his ears. He took a deep breath, but none of the tension left his body. He felt wound-up, ready to explode.

They didn't understand. They didn't understand, because it was different for them. George was their friend, but he was more, so much more for Clay, and – and it made everything worse, made him think back on their every interaction with a sense of deep humiliation. He had trusted George with everything, and George knew that, and the whole time, he had been tricking him, going behind his back. George must have thought Clay was either stupid or evil, and the thought of either ached like a blow to his chest that didn't fade. The fact that Sapnap knew – that George had apparently trusted him more than Clay – was salt in the wound.

He had thought George cared about him. Was that still possible?

(A memory came to him unprovoked, playing in his mind as crystal clear as if he were living it again. George, standing in their secret clearing on the castle grounds, his face conflicted, saying, "I'm loyal to you, always -,")

(And another – of George standing in front of him in his room, his eyes dark and devoted, his hands in Clay's, saying, "everything I do, I do for you," and the way Clay could tell that – he was telling the truth.)

Clay dropped his head into his hands, trying to ignore the way they trembled.

And then...

And then another thought came to him, slowly - a thought that made him sit up straight in his throne, staring off into space for a moment.

He stood up and left the Great Hall; he discarded his armor and found a change of clothes in his quarters; and then he headed for the woods.

When George woke up, he thought, for one disoriented moment, that he was in the dungeons of Camelot; and the thought occurred to him, with a sick, low wrench in his stomach, that Clay might be putting him to death.

But the thought dissipated as his faculties returned. The room was not like the stone-walled dungeons of Camelot. Rather, he was in a sort of small, dark cave, lit only by a single flickering torch on the far wall. Iron bars trapped him in a sort of cell in the far corner, and there were shackles cutting into his wrists, chaining him to the walls. On the far wall was a heavy door, seemingly built into the rock wall.

He was in Mercia, he remembered; remembered Dream turning away from him and leaving him to the soldiers, like he had asked him to. Like he had foolishly hoped he wouldn't.

George pushed himself to a sitting position on the stone floor. Overall, he was in a pretty terrible state. His bandages had stayed wrapped around his chest, but the wound still hurt like hell; he felt weak all over, hungry and probably dehydrated, shivering in the cold, damp air of whatever dungeon he was in.

Fighting down panic, George screwed his eyes shut and asked his magic to break the chains –

And then he jerked away, shouting in surprise, as the shackles suddenly burned into his wrists, the iron red-hot. He felt his magic smash into some kind of wall, fizzling out, and he was left gasping, pain shooting up and down his forearms.

The chains didn't budge.

What. The fuck.

He looked closer at the shackles and saw that there were Old Language letters carved into the iron, a faint glow fading away along with the heat. Experimentally, George tried to summon a flame in his hands – but as he did, the enchantments lit up again, making him grit his teeth against the wave of heat flowing down his arms and stopping his magic.

It was painful, and it felt wrong, so wrong, to reach for the magic that was always lingering just under the surface and to have it denied. Without his magic, George felt exposed and weak and alone as he curled into himself, staring at the enchantments and trying to think of some way, any way, to get his magic back.

The heavy door to the dungeon opened suddenly, and George looked up to see a tall, unfamiliar man in Mercian garb walking through, followed by a familiar face that made him sit up straight, his heart pounding. The man stood back against the wall, and Minx approached George's cell.

"Nice to see you again, Georgie," she said. Minx looked exactly as George remembered her – the long silver hair, the strange pale eyes, the unmistakable feeling that she was staring into the very center of him. The flickering torchlight illuminated her face, giving it a sort of wild look.

George didn't respond, feeling his vulnerability in front of her as sharply as he felt the stone wall digging into his back.

"Sorry for all the precautions," she said, nodding towards the shackles on his wrists. "It's just, you know. We don't have that great of a track record, you and me." She fell into a cross-legged position on the ground right outside of the cell, so that she was on an even level with George. A small smile played on her lips.

"What do you want?" George finally asked. "Why am I here?"

Minx raised her eyebrows. "I want what I've always wanted," she said. "I want you to join me."

George scoffed despite himself. "And taking me prisoner is your attempt at recruitment?"

"I don't want you to think of yourself as a prisoner," she said, propping her chin up on her hand. "I want you to think of this as... temporary. I'm on your side, George, and you're on mine. The sooner you figure that out, the better for both of us."

"I'm not on your side," George denied.

"And why not?"

"You're taking over by force, and I've heard the rumors. I remember what you told me. You're wiping out non-magic users."

"Only the ones who deserve it," Minx said, her eyes lighting up with that ghostly white light for a moment before fading away. A slow grin crossed her face. "And you can't deny a few of them do."

George's stomach churned. He pushed himself as far away from her as his chains would allow.

"Listen to me, George," Minx said. "Once we've taken over the Five Kingdoms, magic will be reign over Albion. We'll be able to live freely, openly. I know you don't agree with everything we're doing, but what other option do you have?"

"I'm loyal to King Clay," George responded automatically.

Minx's expression darkened. "Still?"

"Always," he said, feeling the weight of the word.

She shook her head, pursing her lips. "I keep waiting for you to get a little self-respect, George. But I'm starting to feel like that might never happen. You just keep trailing behind this royal pain in the ass like a lost little puppy dog. For a person of your ability, it's embarrassing."

George held her gaze, unimpressed.

"And now he's left you here to die, and you still won't go against him."

It was the first sentence that stung. His shoulders stiffened, and he looked away.

"Whatever you think you have with him – if it's loyalty or friendship or love – this isn't that," Minx mused, tilting her head to try and catch George's gaze. "They told me what happened. You gave yourself up to protect him. If he cared about you, don't you think he'd come back for you?"

"He -,"

The words died in George's throat.

He wanted to say, he will.

But in that moment, he wasn't certain. And that thought made him feel even smaller and more alone than he already did.

Minx sighed. "Moment of truth, George. Your Dream isn't all he's cracked up to be. He's not coming to get you, and he's not going to restore magic to Albion. He never was. But the Circle can. And we want you to join us. Think it over."

As she stood to leave, he leaned forward, suddenly desperate. "Wait – Minx."

"Yes?"

"I'm – I haven't eaten for days," George said, and suddenly felt that reality as a sharp pang in his stomach, a sort of numb, persistent ache in his body. "I need food – water."

Minx hesitated, then turned to the man standing guard. She said, "some water, but no food."

She turned back to George, who felt himself shrinking, and said coolly, "sorry, Georgie, but I have no interest in keeping you as a pet. You can either decide to join us, or you can rot in here. The choice is yours."

She muffled the torch on the wall with a flick of her wrist; the door closed behind her; and George was left in a cold, silent darkness that wrapped him up and swallowed him whole.

George's grandmother's house looked exactly like Clay remembered it. A light flickered in the window of the little cabin, overgrown with vines and plants; the spring garden was newly planted but already showing signs of growth. He had visited this house often as a child, though it had been a while since he made the trip.

He paused outside of the cabin for a long moment, his heart hammering in his chest, before knocking on the door.

It opened nearly immediately. Sylvia stood there, looking... strange. Sad, maybe.

"Your Highness," she said, bowing her head a little.

"Hi, Sylvia," Clay said tiredly. "Just Clay, please."

Sylvia motioned him inside, where he stood for a moment, unsure of himself. Unsure of what, exactly, he was doing here.