“Don’t cry, Jenny,” Arthur said. His voice was hoarse, his eyes distant, but he smoothed a hand over her hair.

“My Lord,” Emrys said. “Let me pull the blade out. I can –”

“It’s done,” Arthur said. “You know what comes next.”

Emrys gripped Arthur’s hand. “Not yet –”

“You know it’s now.” Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath. “Tell Lance to take care of Jenny.”

Guinevere sobbed harder.

Emrys nodded. “Yes, My Lord.”

“And you – take care of Lila. Help her get home.” Arthur looked up, pinned Lila with his gaze.

She stumbled forward, compelled by an invisible force, and fell to her knees beside him. “My Lord –”

“Please,” he said, “my name is Arthur.”

And he closed his eyes and died.

Guinevere’s sobs became wails.

Emrys rose up, dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. “Come,” he said to the knights. “We must lay our king to rest.”

Lila stood, sheathed her sword. “Let me give you a hand.”

“Devil-child,” the dark-haired woman began.

Emrys silenced her with a look. “Have some respect for the dead.”