Page 9 of To Love a Dark Lord

“But you will not tell me who I am, Mother.” He frowned up at her. “You will not tell me who fathered me.”

“It does not matter. You are my son. And that is more than enough for you.” She knelt and took his face in her palms. Those onyx eyes bored into him, revealing everything. Seeing through him. “And it should be enough for you now, locked away in that damnable creation of yours.”

Wait.

That was not the way the memory had gone.

He was but a child when this had taken place. “I…”

“You are the son of Morgana. You are Mordred, the dread prince. The rightful ruler of Avalon. The throne was always meant to be yours. Avalon chose you, not that insipid brother of mine. For you are the one who had the strength to do what is needed.” Morgana’s expression was unwavering. Unflinching.

Perhaps this was a product of his imagination.

Or perhaps it was real. A ghost of his mother, come to haunt him.

He supposed it did not matter.

“Find a way out of this cage. And take the throne, as you were meant to so long ago.” Morgana stood, towering over his small frame. “Become the King in Iron. Fulfill your destiny. Destroy them all.”

Dream or ghost, he did not know, but it all faded away, returning him to the echoes of his mind. He did not know which he preferred. But one thing was becoming very clear.

He was going insane.

It was maddening.

Heh.

Finally, they will all be right about me.

THREE

Gwen sipped her drink as she watched the field that surrounded Mordred’s keep. She decided one more day to gather her thoughts and figure out her best plan of attack couldn’t be a bad thing.

It was midafternoon, so at least she didn’t feel too bad about hitting the whiskey already. The weight of it all was grueling—between not sleeping, and now deciding that she was going to raise an army to free Mordred.

Which would start total war.

But it seemed that was the direction Avalon was headed, no matter what she did. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe it was fate. Maybe the people here just sucked at not killing each other. She supposed it didn’t matter.

She was sitting on the stone base of one of the towers that sat to the side of the main gate. The keep had a yard around it, and then a defensive wall that circled it on all sides except for the cliff. She wanted to get some air—wanted to get away from the clatter and clanking of all of Mordred’s guards and servants. It wasn’t their fault, but her lack of sleep and worsening mood were giving her a short fuse. She didn’t want to scream at a guard for making squeaky metal noises when he literally couldn’t help it.

Leaning her head back against the stone wall behind her, she let out a long, weary sigh. “This sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

She jolted, nearly falling off the stone base and spilling her drink. “What the f—” It was Doc. At some point, he had sat down next to her, also watching the field as the green strands blew idly in the wind.

“See why I drink so much?” He sipped his own bottle. “Shame you build a tolerance over time. At least I like the flavor.”

“I really don’t want to become an alcoholic.”

“Eh, live long enough, and you’ll try a little bit of everything.” Doc sniffed. “Boredom’ll do that.”

“I suppose. I guess I can take up a bunch of hobbies.” She smirked. “Maybe I’ll take up painting. Or crochet.”

They went silent for a long time as she watched the woods beyond the field. She wasn’t sure why. She supposed part of her was expecting someone to come marching out on horseback, declaring war on her for some reason or another. “Doc?”

“Yeah?”

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