Lila stood beside Emrys and Jenny, still clad in bloodstained armor and tabard, while Lancelot and Agravaine addressed Mordred’s men. Gaheris, though loyal to Arthur, had taken his place at the head of Orkney, and the exchange of terms by this point was mere formality. Sir Tor, Safir, Ector, Tristan, and the rest of the knights stood beside the bier on which Arthur lay. Lila dared to glance over at him, and her throat closed. People who were dead didn’t look asleep – they just looked dead, and Arthur was no different. It was almost obscene to see a man so full of energy and presence rendered stiff, lifeless, limbs arranged in an artificial pose of serenity to disguise the site of his mortal wound.

Jenny held her head high, but Emrys’s head was bowed, shoulders hunched, lips pressed into a thin, miserable line. When Lancelot finished, he stepped back, and Lila saw Jenny slip her hand into his. In a moment of bold clarity, Lila reached out and curled her fingers through Emrys’s. He let out a soundless sob.